Grandfather's House: The Memorial
by Siskiyou
Summary: In stories centered around his grandfather's home, Spock's family, Vulcan survivors and our favorite crew struggle to deal with the catastrophic changes caused by the Narada. Isn't Christopher Plummer well cast here? Jaunty scarf!
1. Ch 1 After the Memorial

Setting: After ST XI, back on earth at Spock's human grandfather's house near Seattle, North America. _(Christopher Plummer as Ret. Adm. Robert Grayson. I tried attaching the fanfoto again where he's jauntily wearing a scarf and has a great blue-eyed smile, but it got cut uploading. He seemed like he was having the time of his life as Karg; it would be so fun to have him in another role.)_

My only daughter's only child thinks he has slipped unseen away from his mother's memorial service. He objected to attending, but his father and I both insisted he come. I can see he's hurting: we all are-my Vulcan son in law as well. It's hard to read my son in law, but his rigidity, silences and distraction have been telling.

The service is over, so I too can slip away to check on my grandson. His father is already at the door, the worry in his eyes plain. "He cannot bear to demonstrate human characteristics in my presence."

"Sarek. He looks up to you. He needs you."

Outside the window the lawn sweeps down to the steel gray of the sound and the boat dock, where the waves are gently soughing. It is low tide and the salt bleached cobbles of the beach lay exposed, gray and fringed with emerald eelgrass. The sky too is gray and monochromatic; the San Juan Islands in the distance barely visible through the mist.

Sarek shakes his head. "He depended on Amanda. He could always speak freely with her." He meets my eyes and I can see the pain there. "He tried to save her. As we prepared to beam aboard the Enterprise, the ground collapsed beneath us. She was mere centimeters from…" His voice trailed to a whisper. "I regret if this causes you pain, but the shock to my son was great."

Yes, it hurts, but it helps to know the truth, what happened; how Spock managed to save his father but not his mother. My precious baby, dear God…

"Sarek. I'm so sorry." Not just my daughter lost but the entire planet dissolving beneath their feet: their home, their culture-six billion Vulcans gone in less than twenty minutes time. And earth barely averting the same fate. "There are no words…"

Sarek gives the slightest nod to acknowledge my condolence, but says nothing. He opens the door, and we move in tandem to the edge of the stone patio.

My grandson wanders along the water's edge to the end of the boat dock. I expect him to stop there and duplicate Sarek's Vulcan stance, ramrod straight with his hands clasped behind his back. But, no, he leans hard on a piling. I have an idea, and gesture for Sarek to follow me.

We drift across the wide lawn in silence and enter the old boathouse. I gather a bucketful of cleaning supplies and nod my head for Sarek to follow me out on the dock, but he hesitates. He is wary of the water. I doubt if he knows how to swim. Few Vulcans do…or did, I correct myself. I hold out the cleaning supplies.

"Star Fleet has placed him on leave for at least another couple of weeks. Tell him I expect him to do something useful around here." I say it gently, a suggestion.

Sarek takes the bucket and looks at its contents uncertainly.

"He knows how to use that," I add. While Spock stayed with me during his Star Fleet Academy holiday breaks, I'd taught him to sail. He'd already logged plenty of time swabbing the decks of the Mandy Jane and running her around the Sound. The repetitive, mindless maintenance work might be just what he needs to find his bearings.

As Sarek-carefully walking dead center on the dock-approaches Spock, I can see the effort it takes for my grandson to force himself into the formal Vulcan stance. Still, he faces away from his father.

"Spock. You left the memorial before it was concluded."

There is just a moment's hesitation before Spock responds, "I meant no disrespect."

"My son…" Sarek shakes his head slightly, and I recall what Sarek privately fretted to me last night: _No matter how carefully I phrase my words, Spock perceives as criticism anything I say directly to him._

"I would prefer to continue my meditation in private." Spock's words were spoken evenly, but his tone quavered.

"It is appropriate for you to grieve your human mother in a human way."

He doesn't respond right away, and places a hand back on the piling for support. "I struggle for control, Sarek."

"I do not require it, Spock, not in these circumstances. Our losses are too great. I am more concerned that you find your way through your pain, and return to mental balance."

"I have not lost my mind."

"Consider, if you will, that I offer these words out of…concern, not judgement." After a prolonged silence, with Spock keeping his back to him, Sarek places the bucket at his son's feet. "Your Grandfather Grayson requests that you perform maintenance activities on his archaic aquatic transportation device. He indicated that these are the supplies you require and that you are trained in their function."

Not turning, Spock nods.

"There will be an excess of food presented to family and guests shortly; a traditional human post-memorial activity. I do not expect you to partake, but I expect you to attend." Sarek strides away, his pace deliberate.

I can read nothing from Sarek's face, but I have the feeling he is frustrated.

He pauses before me. "I have indicated that I expect my son to participate in the evening meal."

Our eyes hold for a long moment, then Sarek silently turns and sweeps more than strides back to the house, disappearing inside. When I look back to Spock he has knelt and is rummaging through the bucket, picking out some rags. I go to him.

"Hey, kid. Got everything you need there?"

He nods, sniffing quietly and wiping at his face with his hand. "Yes. I believe so."

I rummage through my pocket and hand him a clean handkerchief. "Here."

My grandson sighs, taking it.

I have a sudden realization. "Your father had no idea-" _you were crying. _I stop myself from stating it out loud—after all, it's generally believed that Vulcans are physically incapable of shedding tears and I don't want to unintentionally offend Spock by pointing out he's doing something human.

Not looking up, he scrubs at his face. "Correct. To grieve in this way is, of course, alien to him," he responds as if I'd completed my sentence.

I put my hand on his back for a moment, over where I believe his heart is, and can feel him trembling. "I miss her, too."

His breath catches in his throat and, although he continues smoothly organizing the cleaning supplies, fresh moisture tracks down to the tip of his nose. Irritated, he flicks the tears away, his mouth compressing with determination. He opens up a can of wax and tests it with his finger. "He thinks I am being self-indulgent." Spock says quietly.

I bite back the refutation that comes to my lips. Spock believes it: perhaps he fears it's true. He doesn't need me to correct him, not now, not today. I give his back another little pat and a rough rub and step back, putting my fists on my hips. I lean back as my gaze follows the little craft's mast up, checking the rigging. "You think you can get this sailboat ship shape?"

"Aye, sir." Then he adds softly, almost wistfully, "There might be time enough to run her out to the point and back before dark."

'_May I? Before dinner?' _I translate. "I'll cover for you if you run a few minutes late."

His dark eyes give me a grateful glance as he nods, understanding.


	2. Ch 2 Kirk Visits

_Setting: Post ST XI, at the Grayson family home, near Seattle, Earth. A/N: It's Kirk's viewpoint. He uses a few coarser words. _

A stooped yet still towering figure opens the door, and I recognize the older man before me: Admiral Grayson. Retired, but clearly not retiring.

"Captain Kirk, I presume?" He says in a low voice, stepping forward onto the porch and drawing the door closed behind him.

"Yes, sir."

He nods crisply, clearly cutting me off. "Follow me."

I hold back a flood of impatience and choose to follow in respectful silence. We arrive at a veranda overlooking the Puget Sound. The view and the air is gray and cold and stiflingly horizon-less. "Is Spock here?" I venture curtly. "He said he planned to resign his commission to help with New Vulcan."

The Admiral caught and held my gaze until I had to look away. It was too intense for me after everything I'd just gone through: his gaze went deep. The Admiral is grieving the loss of his daughter, but there is a harder sorrow in the depths of those intense blue eyes. He knows pain and the darkness of battle, and I know he can see things in me that I'd just as soon keep to myself.

His lips compress for a moment before he speaks, his eyes still measuring me. "He seems to have reconsidered."

I need one thing and cut to the chase. "I want him back."

"Based on the reports I've heard, seems like you were pretty eager to depose the acting Captain-my grandson, mind you."

For a moment I don't know whether to stand my ground or just turn and sulk away. Earth would have been destroyed if I hadn't pushed Spock over the edge and changed the ship's tactics. It didn't mean I didn't feel like shit for what I'd done to him. Even if he had almost gotten me booted out of the academy, I'd emotionally kicked the man when he was down.

The Admiral's eyes narrow, then he sighs. "Chris told me you were the one for her, he felt it." He waves a hand. "And that you had the tactical brilliance for command. Also… that you might be a little too desperate to have her."

Have _who? _ "To have her?"

"The Enterprise." He laughes, a single dry cough. "Chris Pike and I go way back, and he's a man who knows how to put together a hell of a crew." He clasps his hands behind his back, facing me. "I'd be pushing Headquarters to bring you up on mutiny charges if I had any less faith in Chris' judgement."

"Sir—!"

"Spock was your commanding officer. You intentionally pushed him past his breaking point. You humiliated him in front of his crew." He spoke evenly, but his eyes smoldered. "Worse, his father."

"He almost broke my neck. He nearly killed me." My three still mending broken ribs loudly agree.

"You took that risk to take command of the ship."

"Yes, sir. And not lightly." I realize I am unconsciously rubbing my neck and force my hand to my side. I couldn't tell him the older Spock, the time traveler, had virtually ordered me to do so; it was true, but it still sounded insane even to me. "I knew what had to happen to save the Earth. And I was right. Spock's strategy would have doomed the Earth and possibly even the Federation to destruction."

"You pushed him into resigning his commission, and yet you immediately teamed with him to attack the Narada."

"I deployed the best crew for the task at hand."

"It was a suicide mission. You got lucky." The Admiral watches for my reaction, but I have none: I did what I had to do. He nods, then puts his hands behind his back and strolls to the edge of sprawling deck that overlooks the Sound and gazes for a long moment at the barges slowly plying their way toward Seattle.

"I don't believe—"

"In the no win scenario. I know, I've heard." He turns to me, and I see a certain resignation in his face: not quite forgiveness, but a small measure of acceptance. "I'll see if Spock's up to seeing you." The Admiral hesitates then adds, "I was letting him sleep in. He's had a rough couple of nights."

I take a second to digest that before plowing on. "I'd appreciate that, sir. The Enterprise needs him. I need him. There's no one better or brighter for the Enterprise's First Officer. I'm hoping he'll let me make my case."

Without another word, the Admiral turns and enters the home, and I'm left standing awkwardly by myself and feeling more than a little like an intruder. I look around at the fine home, at the elegant lawn that curves all the way down to the Sound. How alien and disorienting this must be for Spock and Sarek, marooned here from their destroyed desert planet. They've lost everything: their planet and its ecosystems, their culture and its artifacts, most likely all their Vulcan relatives, everyone they knew, everything they owned…

I decide to seat myself at a table on the deck, and absently set up a chess set left there while I wait. I turn at the sound of a door opening, and to my surprise I see Spock and not the Admiral. He's wearing a black turtleneck and some kind of warm-looking fuzzy grey sweat pants, and carries two steaming cups. He raises an eyebrow at me as he approaches, and I realize I've never seen him out of uniform. He looks much younger, and he looks like hell. Like someone who's been home with the flu for a week—shaved, but his hair looks uncombed; his face is faintly mottled with greenish blotches and there are dark circles under his eyes.

He places a cup of what turns out to be tea in front of me and takes a seat.

"Slippers, Spock?" I say, gently teasing. "Non-regulation."

He stares at me hard for a long moment then, taking up his cup of tea, stares away from me at the Sound-clearly uninterested in banter. At a loss, I move a pawn. His eyes turn to the board, then meet mine for a long moment. Wordlessly the game is on and in silence we play for almost an hour until I finally move the last piece.

"Check." I don't need to rub it in that I've just defeated the Academy's Grandmaster Chess champion for the last three years running. I never was one for the contrivance of tournaments. That, and I've been too damn busy studying.

His brows draw as he studies the board; then he leans back and closes his eyes.

"Sorry, I—"

But he is the epitome of Vulcan control when he opens his eyes. "I persist in underestimating you."

What can I do but flash him a wry smile?

He stands, picking up the now empty cups. "My grandfather indicated you wished to renew your offer."

I want to rush into all the reasons why he's the one, my top choice, but I hold myself back with no little difficulty. "Correct. First Officer."

"And Chief Science Officer."

I swallow back my irritation. The arrogant bastard's showing off again. No one else in the fleet has ever held those two key positions at once. I force my jaw to relax. "Yes."

He catches my hesitation and his chin lifts slightly. "I accept, on one condition. Captain."

I stand, facing Spock directly. "Shoot."

"That we agree to make a conscious effort to overcome this bitter competition between us."

I stick out my hand, and as quickly realize what a cultural gaff I've made, but he puts down the teacups and gives my hand a firm shake. "Agreed."

And I think of the mind meld with time-traveler Spock: _we should have been friends._

Spock's eyebrows rise as he lets go of my hand and I wonder if he read my thoughts. "Perhaps not perpetrating assault on one another would be a place to begin."

I laugh despite myself as he picks the teacups back up. "That works for me."


	3. Ch 3 Sarek

Grayson House, Seattle

Grayson returned from the kitchen and held out a cup of tea to his son in law. "How are you doing today, Sarek?"

The Vulcan continued to stare out the window. Outside, its brilliance muted by passing swirls of cool fog, an emerald carpet of lawn led down to the dock where his son stood looking out across the sound. He turned and accepted the offering of now precious K'chr tea from his father in law. _The Vulcan Embassy and Federation Demographics are identifying the estimated one hundred thousand non-Vulcans lost along with my people: students, diplomats and trades-people, academics. _It was not what his host wished to hear.

"Recuperating as best I can." He offered, breathing in the sweet steam of the aromatic herbal tea. Sarek, Ambassador of an extinguished planet, had a sense of himself floating above the shock of Vulcan's destruction, his emotional doors barricaded against an abyss of grief. _Eighty four percent of the non-Vulcan lost are believed to be from Earth. As for Star Fleet: I do not yet know how many lives Star Fleet lost in fighting for Vulcan. _It was difficult to order his thoughts. He needed to meditate more, yet where was the time to address his personal needs when the needs of the many-or at least, the remaining few-were so great?

"Your clerk T'Zel transported here from the Embassy last night and cooked up some homemade Shi'Kahri food for you two. Neither one of you has eaten since you arrived. Do you think you could get Spock to eat?"

Sarek shook his head slightly. "No. He would become even more determined not to eat should I suggest it." _The Vulcan Embassy's technical staff in San Francisco had not begun to identify Vulcan dead; they were concentrating on finding and identifying those few who lived. As of 08:00 Earth Universal time: eight thousand four hundred and twenty two._

Robert Grayson nodded, dismayed, his eyes falling on a dusty old hologram of his daughter, Sarek, and a very young, wide-eyed Spock on his fireplace mantel. He had hoped Sarek and Spock would eventually make peace simply for Amanda's sake. And now…would they transcend their differences or be driven even farther apart?

Sarek turned back to the window, silent. It was impossible to eat when the pain of their loss screamed in their minds. Everything. Gone. No, his control was less than perfect. _I grieve for my wife. I do not know how to help my son. I am informed seventeen more Vulcans took their lives last night. _The question was to find the logic in continuing to exist. "A conference will be transmitted from the San Francisco consulate on Friday, Robert. I shall be part of a team facilitating the interactive survey. We will come to consensus regarding our direction as a remnant people. A few will be joining in from remote science postings, a few from Andor and Telluria. Most of the survivors seem to have made their way to Earth." _Indeed_, he thought, _most that survived were already here_.

Grayson's eyes narrowed as he noticed the paleness of Sarek's hands and ears, and quickly went to the house control where he re-coded the temperature up three more degrees. "I'm told refugee credits will be released to your people today. And under emergency proclamation last night, all Vulcans have been extended automatic Earth citizenship should they wish to accept it. And my home is your home, as it has always been."

"Most generous." _How we have fallen: from a great civilization to dependents and paupers._ _I myself dependent for the least need on my human father in law._ _Oh, Vulcan…destroyed! _The economic blow alone would be disastrous for the Federation, the impact of the loss of Vulcan's technology and research capacity worse. He feared for the stability and even survival of the Federation itself.

And yet, he must attend to first things first. He could not serve his people efficiently were he to allow his strength to flag. It flickered illogically through his mind that in a mental state comparable to his current one his wife or son would surely have sighed. "I do not suppose T'Zel prepared any of her exceptional tofu salad wraps?"

The Admiral didn't smile, but there was relief in his eyes. "She did indeed."


	4. Ch 4 Cousin Rob

Rob Grayson, one of Admiral Grayson's grandsons, Spock's cousin

Rob Grayson swung his boat wide and cut power, letting momentum drift it perfectly beside his grandfather's dock. He threw the tie line to his cousin Spock, who, conveniently was already standing there. Spock caught the line and flipped it in half hitches around the bull's horn, tying down the boat with practiced ease.

"Cuz'," the younger Grayson greeted Spock amicably, and Spock nodded in return. "Couldn't find a few of the Vulcan food items. People are already boxing the stuff up and shipping it down to the embassy for the refugees."

"Indeed."

"Yeah. Friday Harbor was a mad house. People are all wound up over the news." He held out a sack of groceries for Spock to carry, then stepped out of the boat holding more parcels. "They asked about you at the store. If you'd made it. About Vulcan." He gave his cousin a sideways glance but Spock didn't meet his eyes.

They fell into step together, heading for the house. "And?"

"I told him I hadn't heard from you yet. Didn't want you drowning in paparazzi."

"That was wise."

The tall, dark haired cousins quickly made their way up the path.

"I think I just ran into that other Fleet kid. Jim Kirk? The one who stepped in for Captain Pike."

Spock gave his cousin a wary look. "On your errand just now?"

"Yeah, at the store, buying a bag of apples." He shook his head. "I can't believe it came to hand to hand combat."

Spock's eyebrows raised. "How would you know this?"

His cousin, bag handles still in his hand, gestured across his own throat. "Nasty purple bruises. Looked like one of those Romulans tried to rip his throat out."

Spock came to a sudden halt and turned to his cousin. "That…I did." He said quietly. "Not the Romulans."

Rob Grayson blinked at his cousin. His restrained, studious _Vulcan_ cousin? Over the years he'd caught Spock showing various emotions: affection, humor, disappointment. But _violence_? He couldn't even imagine it. "Well. He must have done something pretty awful to you, then."

"Yes. But I should not have lost control." Spock looked into his cousin's eyes and saw no blame or disappointment: only affection and curiosity. He realized he was surprisingly grateful for Rob's familial support. "The outcome speaks for itself. Earth was saved."

Spock turned back toward the sound, taking in the vista…the mists hanging low over the water, the dark forested islands, the pink tipped clouds and the silver dagger of moon peeking between them. Out in the Sound the ships and the orca continued on their evening journey. For an instant, he visualized a second singularity; the blue planet ripping itself apart as Vulcan had before his eyes. For an instant, a vision of Vulcan superimposed on the scene before him. For an instant he remembered his mother's voice forming his name in the roar of collapsing stone-

Rob's face drew as his cousin visibly faltered. "Spock? You OK?"

But his cousin had already dropped the parcel into a chair on the veranda and was striding back toward the water's edge.


	5. Ch 5 Evening

Retired Admiral Robert Grayson

I glance at the antique clock in the hallway. _It is_ _22:15 on the dot again for the third night running._ Spock is again using the secure com-link in my office.

I lean against the doorframe, observing, and see a young woman's pre-recorded face appear. Interesting. So this is the recipient of the ten o'clock calls. I can't hear what she is saying—Spock is wearing the com-link earpiece—but it is easy enough to tell that the image on the screen is saying _please leave a message._

My grandson speaks very softly. "Spock here. Please return this call as soon as practicable so I may be assured that you are well." He pauses for a long moment: "I…" another pause, and a shift in posture. "I would very much appreciate your analysis of the Orion situation and, as always, I am at your service regarding translation and transliteration. Further, regarding the refitting of the Enterprise, I have important news to discuss with you."

He was silent again for such a long time that I nearly remind him to sign off, but he speaks again, and there is an undertone of urgency in his soft words. "Do not concern yourself that it was impossibe for you to attend the memorial. I understand the situation and your responsibilities." There is another pause. "If you are granted a rest period, I reiterate your presence would be welcomed here. _O'oksols jkoxna ek._ Spock out."

My brows knit. He'd spoken an Orion phrase, and it rang a bell. I'll have to look it up later.

Spock looks up at me, I knew he'd sensed my presence.

"Sorry, Spock. I need to use the secure link to contact Joe Barett at the Diplomatic Corps. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but it sounds like you're aware the Orion situation is heating up."

He closes his link, stands and walks to the doorway. "The Federation's enemies have begun testing us for signs of weakness. We have much to fear from the Orion."

I shake my head. "Fear. Yes, isn't that where troubles begin. And now we lack the Vulcans' cooler heads to deal with them."

"Vulcan and Orion have long…had long been enemies. Long before the Federation. Logic did not end the enmity."

"No. But I have no doubt that many lives on all sides have been preserved by it."

" '_Sh'kul'ka va elethskor kava.'" _Spock quoted Surak in the philosopher's pre-reformation Vulcan.

I chuckle. "Love your neighbor as yourself?" I translate broadly. "That's definitely a challenge with the Orion's and their friends. The Golden Rule versus the rule of gold. Metaphorically speaking."

"Indeed. I should delay your call no longer." Spock slips past me toward his bedroom, and I hope that tonight he will finally get some decent rest.

"Spock."

He stops and turns back to me, a question in his eyes.

"What's her name?"

He swallows, and the tips of his ears blush green. "Nyota Uhura. She is a most outstanding linguist and has been assigned as the Communications Officer of the Enterprise."

"Goodnight, Spock."

He nods and with a slightly wary look he continues on his way. Before I initiate the call to UFP Diplomacy Administration I transliterated into the com the phrase Spock had left for the girl. _O'oksols jkoxna ek: A journey of two footsteps. An allusion to the Orion classical Story of Oth, meaning: two can travel more successfully than one._

She is more to him than a colleague. I'll have to speak to Sarek about this.

In my study I make myself comfortable and page the Diplomatic Corps, knowing I'll have a long discussion on the 'com with Barrett. The news he gives me is not encouraging, and he even asks me to consider leaving retirement and rejoining the service to make up for staff losses. The Klingon fleet has been seen advancing on the border worlds, and Andor has reported the Klingon Ambassador's inquiries to Central. The Orion, as always, are itching for a fight.

Barrett informs me that Earth's emergency responders have been able to take on the logistics of Vulcan housing and medical care, but the number of refugees is so low that the majority have been easily housed in university dormitories around the San Francisco Bay area. It may not be earth's finest housing, but at least they'll quickly have privacy and a place to rest, plus relatively easy access to each other and the Vulcan Embassy. He warns me with a meaningful look that there have been an accelerating number of Vulcan suicides. I don't een want to consider what he's insinuating. I tell him we're all doing as well as can be expected. We're fine. Barrett signs off reiterating his request for a quick answer on re-upping.

I lean back into the overstuffed chair, drumming my fingers on its arms. Outside in the dark, the wind whistles loundly through the trees, and I shiver even thought the house is now almost unbearably overheated for me. I wander downstairs to the living room fireplace and crank the fake fire up to high, then sit for a long moment watching its flickering artificial flames. It's time I use up the wood-fire permit I've been hoarding and have a party as soon as possible down on the beach. Real flames. Marshmallows on sticks. God, how funny the mortified look on Spock's face when he was little and caught one on fire. Maybe he could pry that girl away from Intelligence and show her how its done. I sigh, and decide to see if Sarek is still up.

He turns to me from the Vulcan dataport the Embassy has installed in my house for his use. Space being at a premium at the Embassy-given all the refugees-it was logical for him to relocate with family. Sarek places his hands on his knees, giving me his full attention. I am exhausted, and seat myself heavily on the small guestroom bed. It is after midnight for me, but he shows no sign of fatigue, or grief, or impatience with my interruption for that matter.

"Speak."

"The Orion are increasingly aggressive. They already know about Vulcan II and are threatening its extermination. The Federation does not know if it's possible to adequately protect the new colony. And it would be all too easy to affect such a small population."

Sarek's eyes grow hooded, distant. "Extirpation. How Orion. And an easy demonstration of their strength."

"The Council is questioning the wisdom of establishing a colony at this time. And the expense of its defense."

Sarek and I hold eyes for a long moment, allowing the irony and probably my anger to dissipate. Vulcan protected, supported and educated Earth for over one hundred years. They defended Earth's people as mature enough to participate in the interplanetary alliances. The cost of that support had been debated on Vulcan, but never with any great seriousness. How could that century of investment begin to compare with the care of fewer than 15,000 refugees?

"I'm sorry."

"It is logical for pragmatic concerns to be discussed. I myself have questioned the wisdom of colonizing a new planet. There is a schism, too, among the survivors. We have long been an urban people, accustomed to urban amenities. Many are objecting to the hard provincial labor of a colony lifestyle." Sarek's face does not change but he lets out a slow, long breath. "Vulcan is dead. There is no replacing it."

Sarek suddenly stands, and taking the glass of water he had been sipping, extinguishes the low embers in his firepot. It sends up a brief puff of spicy smoke. "Vulcan's fires burn no more. I am an artifact. Ambassador to Earth of nothing."

"Your seat on the Council remains, Sarek." I can hardly bear to hear Sarek's levelly spoken fatalism.

Sarek turns to me, expressionless, but surely hearing the alarm in my voice. He raises an eyebrow, clearly to allay my worry. "I did not say I believe myself to be useless."

"Colonel Barett wants to call me back into the service. Star Fleet lost so many personnel…"

Sarek stares at me silently, and I nearly laugh. "It should not be that appalling an idea."

"I mean no disrespect, Robert. But it is indicative of the desperation of the situation."

I nod. I retired for a reason. It was time to drop the reins and let the new guard take on responsibility for the Federation. But we are already on the brink of old fashioned, traditional war if we are calling forward the old men to help guard the hearth. And if Sarek can unhesitatingly refer to the situation as desperate, the Federation is more endangered than I had imagined. I close my eyes, realizing along with the death of my daughter, the death of Vulcan and so many Federation personnel that peace, too, has died.

"Robert." There is compassion in Sarek's voice. "I understand where logic has led you."

I nod and for a moment a meditative silence stretches out.

"Sarek….I believe Spock is interested in a young woman. One of his ship-mates."

"Lieutenant Nyota Uhura. The Communications Officer."

"I see. You are aware of her, then."

"I am aware my son is in love with her." He says, completely matter of fact.

I am dumbfounded. Vulcans never fail to surprise. Sarek never fails to surprise.

Sarek continues when I say nothing. "He is young. Perhaps he does not yet fully understand his situation. It speaks well of her that she has granted him privacy to deal with his grief."

I hope that is the case, but I am not so optimistic. With youth comes poor communication and unnecessary dramatics. "His young bondsmate…?"

Sarek lowers his eyes. "It is all…irrelevant now. There is a ninety-three percent probability that T'Pring was at home in Shi Khar. She was not one to travel." His hands tighten on his kneecaps and flex, releasing tension. "He…was not well matched with her. And she openly consorted with another. Your daughter's objections to the early bonding were well founded."

"I'd like to personally invite the Lieutenant to come here."

"She will unsettle Spock's logic." He presses his palms together and seems to reconsider. "However, I shall not interfere."


	6. Ch 6 Rough Night

Retired Admiral Robert Grayson, at his home near Seattle

It is the middle of the night and I have been monitoring the news transmissions, watching the power struggles emerge. Orion, Cardassia, Romulus. The wolves are circling, sniffing for weakness. Even the jackals internal to the Federation are raising their noses.

From my study I hear soft footsteps hurrying down the hall to the restroom, the clank of someone quietly lifting the toilet cover. I rise and quickly pad down the hall and Sarek from his room does so too, but he stops as before, just out of Spock's line of sight with his back to the wall. Eyes hooded, he gives me a nod and I pass him and tap on the bathroom door.

"I'll be back in a moment."

For the third night, Spock is on his knees, gripping the bowl rim tightly. He gives a slight nod. As I pass Sarek on my way for the hot pad and ginger ale, I feel a pang of dismay. Sarek has not yet troubled his busy staff to replicate new clothing, so for sleepwear he is still layered in my old thermal underwear and flannel pajamas; by the look of his feet, two and maybe three pair of my socks, too.

When I return, this night my grandson takes the liquid without argument and consumes a small quantity. It comes back up immediately, too, but he's learned from experience now that it hurts less if there's something to come up. He dabs at his mouth with some tissue and empties the bowl. He doesn't rise. I hand him the hot pad for the cramps, and he holds it to his abdomen. _We've got the routine down_, I think.

"Any better?" I say softly, pretending I don't want to wake Sarek.

He doesn't look up, but he nods weakly. "Slept. Three hours eight minutes."

He presses the hotpad to his middle with his left hand, but still has a death grip on the bowl with his right. "I have wondered. What. Is the medicinal. Property of…" He takes a shaky breath. "Ginger ale?"

"I think the truth is that it's simply one of the less disgusting things to have come back up."

He works on controlling his breathing then responds softly. "Ah. Practical."

"Spock…any idea what's waking you…?"

He breathes hard for a moment then whispers, "Less control."

"Oh, when you fall asleep?" The fingers grip again.

I see his hands are getting stained and callused from working on the sailboat and I feel a rush of pride for his determination.

He nods slightly. He looks up at me, then away. "I could not block it out."

"What?"

"My controls are not sufficient. I… I-felt it." The hotpad drops to the floor and he grips the bowl with both hands, struggling.

"What, Spock?"

"I felt the dying. The planet. The people." He looks up at me with haunted eyes. "I felt their minds…extinguish."

With a grimace he gestures for more liquid, and I hold the glass to his lips. It goes in, then comes back a moment later.

"Spock…maybe you need help to block some of it out. You can't live with that."

"I...believe you may. Be correct."

"Can…your father help you?"

He sits back on his heels and takes a breath. "We are not bonded. I would find it…difficult to accept." Spock picks up the hotpad and holds it to his abdomen with both arms. "Were he to offer. And he has not."

Not bonded? But…all Vulcan children are bonded with their parents. I suddenly see Spock's insecurity in a new light; perhaps it's not just the result of his mixed ancestry.

"A healer, then?"

"…others have more immediate needs. Than I for…the few surviving Healers."

I'm not so sure. His eyes close in concentration, and I sit with him in silence while he regains control of his breathing and his body. "Think you're ready to go back?" At his nod I slip a hand under his arm and help him up, and keep it there as I escort him back to bed. "Is it easier if all you do is rest?"

There is no mask, no haunted look. For a moment he is just…tired. "I shall continue to practice sleeping."

I resist the urge to tuck him in, but not the urge to put my hand on his forehead. When I remove it, my grandson's eyes are closed and I quickly retreat.

I go to Sarek's guestroom and he is standing by the window with his back to me, hands clasped. Rain slashes in waves against the black glass. Without turning he speaks quietly, but firmly. "I have asked the Embassy to raise his treatment priority level."

"Sarek…" but I stop when he holds up a hand for silence. Another time, then.


	7. Ch 7 McCoy & Uhura Travel

Leonard McCoy Offers a Lift to Uhura

Uhura's viewpoint

A/N: Mild language warning. Sometimes these people talk like sailors.

CMO: Chief Medical Officer

A/N: Rewrite.

"Pack your bags, girl, the bus leaves in an hour," Leonard McCoy says as he rushes into the room and back out again.

No call? No email? No warning? Not even a "hey you"? I am a Communications Officer—you'd think _communicating_ with me might be something that would cross his mind.

"Hey—!" I protest; grabbing what I hope is a bathrobe off a shelf and getting a hand towel. I growl in disgust and fling it on the bed.

I'm instantly annoyed that the CMO just barges into Intel's temporary quarters without so much as a how-do-you-do. Does he actually think I'm going to drop everything I'm doing and _leave_ for some unknown destination with him? I was just heading straight for bed after my _fourth_ twenty-hour day at Fleet Intel _following_ the conflict with the Narada. And I don't really appreciate being caught _again_-in my own room-in ugly fleet issued underwear. Not that he seemed to notice.

The whirlwind runs back into the room and gives me a purely diagnostic once over. "Ah, yeah. Seattle. Bring something warm. And if you hurry you can probably get over to your boyfriend's place and pack some clothes for him. Wait, I'll pick you up there."

This time I'm fast enough to grab his arm before he blows out of the room. "My _what_?" Oh, yeah, I'm angry. I am big time sleep deprived and haven't had a decent cup of real Kenya brew in I don't know how long. This African girl _feels_ dangerous. Clawed.

"Ow. You've got a helluva grip there, Uhura." McCoy says, genuinely impressed.

Is Kirk up to something? "Have you been talking with that jackass again?"

"Let me remind you that's _Captain_ Jackass, who saved this planet, if you don't want Fleet on _your_ ass for being insubordinate. And, no, Kirk wasn't my mole. And your "what" would be the First Officer, and I don't even _want_ to know about that."

"Nor should you want to," I growl. At the moment I am not a nice girl. My relationships are no one's business but my own. "Out with it. Who talked?"

"I've got eyes. Engineer Scott drinks."

"Oh, _you_—!"

Now that he has my attention, McCoy suddenly shifts gears and becomes serious, professional-throwing me a little. "Spock's not resigning after all. Fleet's sending me up there to do his physical and god forbid the psychiatric work-up to get him off his ass and back to work."

Dr. McCoy isn't the least surprised to see the smorgasbord of emotions that fly across my face—you name it, I'm probably feeling it-before I settle on being seriously angry, mostly at him.

"Yeah," he says, not a little wryly, "platonic. Obviously."

He peeks over my shoulder at my monitor and I can see him noting the three unanswered voice-pages from Spock. He makes a tight little frown. He thinks I'm acting like a fickle girlfriend.

"So are you going in HQ's shuttle to the station with me?" He waves at my monitor and I glower at him and slam the screen protect on. "Or will you wait to talk to Spock, then change your mind and have to travel through that mad house out there?" He points energetically, as if he were pointing directly at the madness.

I laugh despite myself at McCoy's wild finger jabbing, and despite my current ambivalence toward a certain waffling science officer. McCoy knows he has his answer: I'll go.

I quickly grow subdued. Does Spock want me to come? Fleet didn't really give me the option of leaving: Intel came first. But, before leaving for Seattle Spock had _asked_ me to come…so quietly, so plaintively…and I missed his mother's memorial. It feels unforgivable.

McCoy gives my shoulder a little pat. "Hurry. I'll be there in an hour."

"They're expecting me back at Intel to translate in the morning. In _four_ hours."

McCoy waves a hand. "Jim's taking care of it."

I give him a doubtful look.

"Seriously. Don't worry." He trots to my open door and swings about on the doorframe. "No one, but _no one_ can manipulate the system like that kid. And maybe it's time we start to trust him a little." He gives me a casual salute and is gone.

I sigh into the sudden silence. I need to listen to Spock's messages.

Thinking of Spock's words when the bridge personnel debarked from the Enterprise, I slump into the ugly yellow dormitory chair. He hadn't looked at anyone in particular when he'd blurted '_I shall resign my commission to help my people rebuild.' _I understand that it could be the right thing for him to do, but it hurt me the way he'd announced it without giving me any warning. I begin opening the messages.

Forty minutes later I'm in Spock's quarters, duffel bag in hand. The 'officer's efficiency unit' is small but comfortable and orderly. He obviously left in a hurry; there is a cup half full of something in the sink, data chips and some printouts are scattered on the table. I have to search to find the clothing he requested, and hope he doesn't feel strange about me rifling through his under-garments. It is all eerily neat, down to folded socks. Just like mine.

From the bedroom where I'm rummaging, I hear McCoy in the living room.

"Should we take this thing? He seemed to like playing it."

McCoy trots down the hall to the bedroom with Spock's ka'athyra – the Vulcan harp. I gasp to see it held up casually by the CMO.

"Do you have any idea what that is?"

"A…harp?" McCoy says, baffled, thinking it's obvious.

"Yes, with the value of a Stradivarius _before _the loss of Vulcan. That particular one happens to be five hundred years old." I hazard a stroke with a finger. "Who knows how many there are now?"

"So…should we take it?"

_No, no, no. We shouldn't even touch it, my rational mind screams._ But even more, I long to hear it played again; I long for that half smile he doesn't even realize he makes when he plays. "If you make so much as a tiny dent in it you'll _hope_ I kill you before Spock gets to you."

Before we leave the apartment, I absently turn over one of the printouts left on the small table. Then another, and another. Family photos: all of the same woman I'd seen from a distance, but never met. One with her wearing huge white solar goggles, very funny. Stiff family portraits with a cute as a bug little boy who has to be Spock; in her garden; next to an orange chasm I recognize as Vulcan's T'Gothh gorge; and holding a tiny green baby with pointed ears. My eyes sting and the photos go blurry. The pictures just make the depth of what he's lost that much more poignant.

McCoy glances at the prints and harrumphs gruffly, but quickly turns away. He looks torn, like he believes he can't allow himself the empathy.

"Yeah," McCoy mutters, "the Vulcan kid's mom obviously loved him, but there are over twelve thousand more sad stories waiting for services at the Vulcan Embassy.I've got a job to do_. _Let's get out of here."


	8. Ch 8 T'Zel

Admiral Grayson's home, near Seattle, North America

As I come downstairs, I hear the sound of busy chopping and clattering in my kitchen, but it is the smell of the freshly brewed coffee that has pulled me there. I am not surprised to find T'Zel back and hard at work.

"Don't you sleep, T'Zel?" There's not even a blush of light outside yet.

I didn't know Vulcans were capable of dirty looks until this moment. I swallow back a smile, and pour myself a cup of the brew. It's perfectly done, of course.

The matronly Vulcan clerk positions a romaine lettuce for chopping, and attacks it with Vulcan efficiency. "You are the patriarch of this house. You must insist they eat." She packages the salad for later and places it into my stasis cupboard with one hand while removing a platter from it and placing it on the kitchen's butcher block prep table.

I sip the hot drink. "There is a human saying: you can lead a horse to water but you cannot make it drink."

There is that same exasperation from her again.

"Look." She gestures at the platter with the large knife and continues to multitask, stirring and baking.

"It looks fine."

"It is untouched. Three days. _Wasteful._" She briskly slides the vegetables off the platter and into the composter. "I inventoried your kitchen. I know that enough food to maintain the health of three adult males has not been consumed."

I sigh. The memorial potluck foods have long since been re-portioned and frozen or disposed of. I haven't been eating much better than Spock and Sarek and it feels humorously domestic to be chastised by Sarek's clerk.

T'Zel's face softens slightly. "What do you need? I will bring it."

I actually _see_ the aging clerk for once. Her life has unobtrusively intertwined on the margins of ours for over thirty years. All this time, and what do I really know about her? And her losses, now? I'd guess she hasn't slept for days. "Nothing. We're fine—"

"It is not logical to deny the obvious." She wipes her hands on the kitchen towel she's tucked around her waist. "Admiral, I must request your consideration of—"

"T'Zel. We must speak." Sarek interrupts her, and I turn to see him in the doorway behind me, giving her a severe look. "A moment, if you will, Robert."

I know Spock would prefer tea, but the coffee's already made so I quickly pour a cupful for him. "I was just going down to see how the boat is coming."

On the dock, I hold out the coffee and my grandson stands to take it. He sniffs it with a slight frown, then wraps his hands tightly around the cup to warm them.

I look across sound at the melancholy gray of the early sunrise. " 'I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and sky…' "

"John Masefield." He glances at the boat's modest mast. " Not much of a tall ship, and the stars to steer her by are no longer visible to human eyesight." Spock takes a tentative sip of the black coffee.

"We have the grey mist."

" 'Upon the sea's face'…indeed." I watch Spock's eyes sweep across the sumi-e vista of fog tattered islands and water.

The little sailboat's deck looks shipshape, not just cleaned but repaired too, and I can see he's started working on the fittings. "Need anything?"

"Is there more steel wool?"

"Certainly. I'll bring some down."

"Grandfather—"

I turn back.

"Star Fleet is sending a doctor today to evaluate my fitness to return to command."

For a moment I'm disgusted that they would ask for his return so soon, then I sigh. The fleet has been devastated by the Narada. Seven lost ships, over three thousand crew…Of course they want him back as soon as possible. "Give yourself enough time, Spock."

He chews on his lip for a moment, as if he's biting back something he's unsure about saying, then nods and goes back to work.

I return to the house for the steel wool, and am surprised by what is clearly an argument. The Shi'Kahr accented Vulcan words are level and quiet, but clipped. Silence falls as I enter.

In the kitchen the battle of wills is palpable.

I look at the piles of chopped vegetables and chuckle. "T'Zel, it looks like you're planning to feed an army."

Her mouth quivers, then her eyes meet mine.

Sarek warns, "I ask that you do not impose—"

The woman kneels at my feet suddenly, pressing her hands to the floor. "Admiral, I beg you—"

"_T'Zel!" _Sarek hisses. "Don't—"

I shake off my shock and-forgetting all Vulcan propriety for a moment-put my hands on the woman's shoulders. "T'Zel. Get up, woman. What is it? Tell me." Sarek can wait.

I help her to her feet. Her face is controlled, but her voice is abject. "I beg you, it would only be for a short while. They need to get out of there—"

"Wait. Who? Where?"

"The Embassy. It is no place for children."

"T'Zel, it is not right for us to-" Sarek tries again to interrupt her.

"They are _Shi'Kahri_ like _us_. Six. Only six, and they have nowhere else to go."

"T'Zel, the children are being safely placed—"

"In foster care. These littlest ones are _Shi'Kahri_, our people. They barely speak standard. Please, please help me keep them together."

Sarek holds his palms up in frustration. "My apologies, Robert. She wants to bring some of the orphans here. I told her it was a ridiculous idea."

"The Embassy is full of chaos and despair. I had to get them out."

I look from T'Zel's desperate eyes to the piles of food, suddenly understanding. "T'Zel. Where are they now?"

Sarek's eyebrows crawl upward.

"Tacoma." She bows her head.

Sarek's eyes close, and he shakes his head slightly. He had not realized they were already here.

"They are Vulcan children. They can be unobtrusive. There is much room here."

"They're waiting at the ferry?" This island is part of a protected world heritage eco-region: they can't just beam in or come by flitter without an emergency or special permit.

"Yes."

Sarek is staring daggers at his clerk.

I go to the wall 'com and page my grandson. "Robbie. I've got some take-out for you to pick up."

T'Zel puts a hand over her eyes, controlling.

"What and where, Skipper." Rob quickly 'coms back, chipper as usual.

"I'll see if we can't get the delivery over to Friday Harbor, and you can bring it in from there."

"Mind telling me what I'm picking up?"

I turn to T'Zel and gesture for her to take the 'com.

"Six Vulcan children. In a group with a human woman, Karen Engvall from Federation Emergency Response."

"Engvall. Got it. Gramps, I'll head out and you can radio me any additional details on the way. Looks like it's drying out, so it should be an easy ride. I'll throw in some extra blankets."

T'Zel turns to Sarek, clearly feeling vindicated. "You see?"

"They are human. Generosity of this type is in their nature. It does not make it right _for us._"

Her mouth compresses tightly and her eyes flash. "Such words from one with equine water consumption habits."

I blink at her, puzzled. She meant to be insulting, I can tell, but…_ah_, I realize, _you can lead a horse to water…_

I can see that Spock and I are going to have to work on T'Zel's retorts.


	9. Ch 9 Skaal

Admiral Grayson's house: Dr. McCoy's view

I'm cold, I'm tired and if I'm not wet I ought to be. It's almost enough to make me wish I'd put through the damned paperwork to get beamed up here. _Almost._ Uhura and I have been traveling for six hours, and after getting off the levi-rail in Olympia, the boats we've been on keep getting smaller and smaller. Ferries. Whatever. If they put us out on the next dock and hand us inflatable tubes to hang onto next I don't think it will surprise me in the least at this point.

Georgia it ain't. In fact, I'm wondering how these Vulcans can stand this cold damp air. The pilot of the little excuse for transportation we're in gestures toward a particularly isolated looking island with a grand cape cod style mansion set back into the trees. It looks a couple hundred years old and very elegant. Not quite Georgia elegant, but not bad for a Yankee place.

"Grayson's." He nods toward the house, calling out over the sound of the mail-boat cutting loudly through the water.

I nudge Uhura, who looks like she's well past second thoughts and on into third and fourth ones. "I think we're here."

She emerges from her cocoon of blankets and peeks out. "Wake me when winter's over."

"It's August."

She groans and, throwing off the blankets starts to ready the gear. "Africa it's not."

"You don't say." But she stands and I can see her dawning appreciation for the cold blue and gray landscape.

"It's beautiful." She breathes as we slow to approach the dock. There's a sailboat tied alongside it already. A workman leaps gracefully as a cat from the sailboat back onto the dock to catch the rope the mail-boat pilot throws him.

"Minus tide, Bill." The worker's baritone voice warns. "Watch the bottom."

"Yeah. I know. I got another box of groceries here for you, too." He calls back laconically. "Ok, this is it." He tosses a box and our duffels onto the dock and we're apparently expected to leap from what limited refuge this dingy provides onto a dock that doesn't look nearly new enough for me to be jumping on to.

"Wrist." The worker extends his hand and I grab his wrist as directed and find myself rather ably swung onto the dock. Before I can think, Uhura—holding the lyre in its case-is deposited beside me, too, and she's grinning up at the sailboat repairman to beat the dickens.

"Good t' see ya safe, Spock." The pilot salutes as the worker throws the rope back to him and the boat speeds off.

I whirl around. Jeans, a knit cap pulled over those signature ears, a thick fisherman knit sweater? Good god: it _is _that young Vulcan. I'd actually thought for a moment that he was just some guy_. _Will wonders never cease? I never imagined him passing for human.

Uhura is standing back uncertainly, and her grin fades as her eyes search his face. "How are you?"

Spock takes a step forward, puts a hand around the back of her neck and bends to give her a brief but firm kiss, leaving her grinning up at him even more broadly than before. "Fine," he replies.

_Liar_, I think, looking him over_, now I know for sure __you__ can lie, even if other Vulcan's can't…or don't. _And then I realize he's trying to spare her feelings. I'll give him a brownie point for that. Brownies. They're a kind of elf, aren't they? Pointed ears?

"Really, Doctor, there is no need to stare," he says, his eyes not leaving Uhura.

"I, ehr…. better help with this." I pointedly turn away and dilly-dally to give them a moment while I gather up my duffel.

Quiet words are exchanged.

"I missed you." Uhura whispers.

"And I, you." He replies softly. "I regret that I did not talk to you before. I'm…sorry." The last word came out as a whisper.

"You'd better be." The words would have been harsh but for the tenderness in her tone.

Not turning around I hoist my bag to my shoulder and head for the house. "Well, some of us are on company time."

To my surprise they both immediately fall in stride along-side me. Spock's taken the duffel Uhura brought for him, and the lyre. "My grandfather's study may be the most appropriate location here to perform my medical reevaluation for Fleet. If it meets with your approval-"

I glance sideways at him. "I'm sure you think you're the center of the universe, but I'm here to evaluate Admiral Grayson for re-enlistment and to check on the Ambassador's health by request of the Federation Council. 'Fraid you're an afterthought. So, _if_ I have time, yes, we'll get around to you."

He blinks at me in surprise. "If this is humor, I do not understand it."

"Nope."

"But…" He bites his lip, clearly worried, and changes the subject. "Is there any news regarding the Captain's welfare?"

"Probably drinking himself into a coma about this point, I'd guess."

"I mean Captain Pike. The neural damage, his paralysis."

I raise my eyebrow at him. "He won't be returning to work anytime soon, if that's what you're asking. Looks like you're going to be stuck with Kirk for a while."

"You will kindly refrain from being flippant regarding Captain Pike's sacrifice and his life altering injuries."

I meet Spock's glare. Of course he's upset about Chris; he's worked under him for years. Brownie point number two, Spock. "Sorry, kid. He's still in rehab, but it's not looking good."

Spock looks away, and we take the last few steps up the pathway in silence.

A tall, handsome gray haired man who must be in his seventies comes out of the house to greet us. "Who do we have here, Spock?"

"Doctor McCoy, meet my grandfather, Retired Rear Admiral Robert Grayson."

"Sir, your reputation precedes. I'm honored to meet you," I give a slight bow in my best southern gentleman fashion. The Admiral extends his hand with a slight smile and gives me a firm handshake, his intense blue eyes meeting mine.

"It was Doctor McCoy who put me on leave for mental health reasons." Spock says dryly.

Grayson's eyebrows rise upward. "You didn't mention this, Spock."

"I was getting him to his mother's memorial one way or another."

His eyes flick to Spock and back to me. "Thank you."

Spock looks a little defensive, but he quickly moves on to introduce Uhura. "And this is Lieutenant Uhura, the Communications Officer on the Enterprise."

The older man takes Uhura's hand. "Very pleased to meet you, Lieutenant. Reports from HQ are that you performed admirably during the crisis and have been a godsend to Intelligence on your return."

"Thank you, sir." She gives him a lovely smile. "Please call me Uhura."

"I'm glad you were able to come, Uhura." He gives her hand a squeeze and lets it go. "You'll be staying with us, I hope?"

"Just for the day, sir."

I watch a flicker of surprise and disappointment wash across Spock's face and disappear.

A middle aged Vulcan woman comes out of the house, busily trying to roll up the sleeves of a coat that's obviously not hers. She looks from me to Spock, and when she sees Uhura her face doesn't change, but her posture does.

"Doctor McCoy, Uhura, this is my father's administrative aid, T'Zel. She has been part of our family for thirty three point two years."

"Live long and prosper." She says evenly, then cocks her head at Spock. "I am honored Spock." Then she rushes past us, calling over her shoulder. "Make them some tea, Spock. There's fresh food in the kitchen."

"Nicely done." Grayson says to Spock.

"It is true." Spock nods back evenly. "And the honor is ours as well."

"What are you talking about?" Uhura and I are both lost.

"Referring to T'Zel as part of the family is quite complimentary by Vulcan standards." He sighs. "And probably more appropriate than you realize."

"Grandfather?" 

"We just had it out with your father, Spock. T'Zel's bringing up a half dozen orphans to stay until permanent arrangements are made for them. Sarek didn't like the idea one bit. And I backed her up."

Spock looks a bit staggered. "Vulcan children?"

"_Shi'Kahri_ children. T'Zel was working with the Emergency Responders on placements when she came across them. Rob just picked them up in Friday Harbor and is bringing them over. She's going down to wait for them."

Uhura lightly touches Spock's arm with her fingertips.

"Your young lady has goosebumps, Spock. Shall we go in?"

We're quickly led to the kitchen while Spock takes on an interesting role: taking our coats, starting tea, putting away the contents of the box—groceries—while I talk with his Grandfather. He explains that taking on work in Fleet's Administration will release younger staff to active duty.

"It will be stressful duty, nonetheless." Spock interjects, evenly, but somehow still clearly unhappy about the idea. He pours out several cups of tea and I'm glad to accept a warm cup. Uhura helps herself to something that looks like raspberry tarts and is making a little 'mmm' sound that seems to amuse Spock.

Before I can bring up Grayson's medical evaluation, I hear a familiar whine outside, and Spock and Robert's eyes meet. Someone is transporting in outside, so it must be some kind of emergency or official business. Spock goes to the door and lets in a very young Vulcan male dressed in pale healer's robes. The rest of us, curious, have followed him into the living room.

I recognize the Vulcan coming down the stairs from the Enterprise: it's Spock's father. "Healer Skaal."

The young Vulcan ignores all of us and speaks directly to Sarek. "Sarek. I am here to evaluate your son on behalf of Healer T'Qilah and to assist Spock myself if possible. "

There is a look between Sarek and Spock that I can't begin to interpret, but Spock looks down at the floor after only a moment. Sarek nods. The youngster turns on his heel and marches up to Spock, reaching for his face. Uhura's gasp causes the Healer to hesitate. He turns slightly toward her. "Be silent or leave."

If I didn't know how deadly serious the Healers' services were, I might have laughed at the dangerous look Uhura gives Skaal. Robert quickly puts his arm around her shoulders and walks her to the far side of the room. "It's OK," he calms her.

I haven't been witness to a lot of Vulcan medicine, particularly this telepathic kind, and I can't say I'm entirely comfortable with it. I surreptitiously activate my medical scanner.

Skaal places his fingertips on Spock's face. Only a few seconds pass before the young Healer makes a choked sound of pain and breaks contact. "What arrogance. Did you think you had more strength than we do? Or was it simply a burst of human curiosity that caused you to keep your shields open? To know what the death of our planet and people would feel like?" He is livid and making no attempt to hide it. "Now to help you we must suffer our losses once again and in all the vividness of your emotions."

I feel mortified for Spock, but his face is unchanged.

The Healer steps back, not breaking eye contact with Spock and his face rapidly loses expression. "I cannot help you. The damage is beyond my ability to repair. Healer T'Qilah will be notified." He bowed to Spock. He turns and visually scans the rest of us quickly, and to my utter surprise walks directly to me and gives me a quick and very specific recommendation for a series of standard medications for Spock.

Healer Skaal curtly turns back to Sarek and bows to him then dips his head toward Robert. He then turns and leaves the house, tapping the comlink on his shoulder and requesting transport as he walks. Within seconds of leaving the room the transporter whine tells us he has gone. You could cut the tension in the room with a butter knife.

Uhura moves toward Spock, but Grayson holds her back. "Not yet." He says gently.

"I'll be damned, that Skaal." I say into the silence. "Someone with a worse bedside manner than me."


	10. Ch 10 Orphans Ahoy

On the way to the Greyson House from Friday Harbor

Rob Greyson, boat ride

Rob hadn't worried until he'd decided to take all of the kids out of the boat and put adult size life preservers on them instead of child-sized ones. The children were heavy; way heavier for their size than normal—he corrected himself-_human_ children. It took his boat too close to its load limit for his comfort. The adjustment just seemed to make the kids zone out even more.

He regretted the mistake, and he hurried to get them back in the boat. A crowd was starting to gather, since few people outside the proximity of the Vulcan Embassy had ever seen Vulcan children-short of news or travelogue media-before. And now they were a novelty. Spock had said prolonged exposure to the undisciplined projections of human minds could be 'difficult'-which Rob had consciously anthropomorphized and translated into 'stressful.' He guessed the kids would be less likely to have the skill to block out those projections. But it was hard to figure out much he could do about it short of hurrying to get them out of town.

Karen stayed on the dock and Rob got in the boat and each held onto one end of an oar to make a railing for the kids to hold as they stepped aboard. One by one the two adults managed it without having to touch the children. These Vulcan kids had been on earth for a couple of weeks so they were mostly adjusted to the lower gravity, but stepping onto a rocking boat was new.

"It's the water. Boating is so unfamiliar to them." Karen Engvall explained, sensing his concern. She counted heads yet again, to be on the safe side. "Vulcans don't swim."

_You should see my cousin, _Rob thought, but didn't contradict her.

Rob was even more convinced strapping them into the adult life jackets was the better choice as he watched the wide-eyed children board. What if one of them panicked and fell over-board? Would they even know to hold their breath? He certainly couldn't count on them having the mammalian diving response. Karen had quietly outlined what she knew about the children:

Savar was the oldest. He believed it was his duty to set an example of control for the others. He was the assigned chaperone for his little cousin, who excelled in learning languages but was a year younger than the other children.

Selar was his cousin and the youngest. She had not spoken since she accidentally witnessed their teacher stopping his heart in the Embassy's garden.

T'Nola and T'Pem had come to study animals. T'Nola was especially interested in birds, and T'Pem in mammals. They were unrelated, but friends who had attended the same school.

Sepek and Sel were interested respectively in art and history, were not related and had come from two different schools.

They were Shi'Kahri Section One students. None was close to their kaswan but Savar. The trip to Terra had been an earned reward for excellence in their studies.

"Do you speak Vulcanir, Karen?" Rob fretted.

"Standard, rather badly. Only a few words of Shi'Kahri. Rai, no. Ha, yes. More or less. Even those concepts don't always translate exactly." She tightened the wrap on the life preserver. It wasn't all that big of a boat-it was made more for speed than capacity. "T'Zel said she'd be waiting for us."

The sun was coming out. The islands were shining emerald in the fresh washed air and the day could be glorious but for the task at hand; for everything it represented.

_Well, there's no sense in not enjoying the ride_, Karen thought. She took a seat at the front of the boat and looked forward to the brisk wind in her hair.

They finally shoved off, Rob double-checking that he wasn't over-loaded after all. He took it slow, regardless. Half a dozen little pairs of hands were clenched white knuckled in half a dozen little laps.

"OK, we'll be there in forty minutes." No reaction. "Ah…My name is Rob?"

The eldest boy seemed to give a slight nod. Rob sighed. Savar was puzzled. They had obviously all heard his name when the adults introduced each other. Why would he repeat it?

A quarter of a nautical kilometer from Friday Harbor, and in the open sea as far as the children were concerned, T'Pem spoke in Shi Kahri Vulcanir. _"In my studies I discovered a human phrase, to 'drown them like kittens.' It referred to a method of culling excess feline population. Do you think it is possible we are considered excess population?"_ She glanced up at the terrifying water then back down at her hands.

Savar told her to desist speaking.

Sel was the next to lose control. _"If this vehicle sinks we shall surely die."_

"_It will not sink."_ Savar said, but without certainty. He had no data with which to evaluate the probability, which seemed somewhat likely given the concern for and confusion over floatation devices.

Rob had no idea what they were saying, but he was relieved they had started to talk amongst themselves a little. It had to be a good sign?

"_If we drown or are murdered it would be a logical solution to the question of our existence."_

Savar also told T'Nola to desist speaking.

Selar wondered about the nature of evil and whether the other children were being intentionally evil in frightening one another or were merely emotionally deranged. She repeated the precepts of Surak to herself.

Savar lost control and sighed.

Karen cried out. "Oh, T'Pem, _look_! A Killer Whale. Right there off the bow!"

T'Pem glanced at the dorsal fin, her throat tightening in terror. Yes. Orca. The humans were pointing excitedly to her and to the orca. She recognized the word 'mammal.' Did they mean to feed her to the climax predator?

The animal breached, the humans cried out (thrilled at the sight, but T'Pem did not understand this), and it appeared to T'Pem that it had leaped toward her. The child swayed.

Rob worried she was going to throw up. And if one started…

"It's going to get a little rough—the channel's up ahead, but it'll take just a moment to cross it. Hang on."

Savar glanced at Rob, baffled. Earth Standard was so much more difficult to understand in its native habitat. It was unfortunate they had not been provided with even an obsolete universal translator.

The boat rocked through the first wave and all six children gripped their seats. On the second wave, four of the six whimpered. Savar and Selar just locked eyes like they were going down on the Titanic.

"Steady." He attempted to tell them not to worry in the Vulcanir Spock had unsuccessfully attempted to teach him. _"Logical. Doing to home. Pending. Safety."_

Savar's eyes widened slightly and he cocked his head. "You should speak standard. Your Vulcanir…."

He consulted in whispers with the other children for a moment seeking an appropriate idiom, then looked Rob directly in the eye. "Yes. That is the word. Stinks. Your Vulcanir stinks."

Rob broke into a belly laugh that rang over the sound. He hadn't laughed so hard in he didn't know how long. Karen couldn't help but join in.

The children were disconcerted by the noise of the laughter, but did not necessarily find it unpleasant.


	11. Ch 11 Post Skaal

Greyson's House—McCoy's perspective

A/N: The author appreciates the encouragement of your reviews. Thank you!

(Note: DOA= 'dead on arrival'; a possible condition on arrival at a hospital emergency room)

In the silent aftermath of the young healer's outburst, Spock turns away from everyone gathered in the living room. He moves toward the fireplace, and reaches out until his fingertips just touch the edge of the mantel. There is a photograph there; a family photograph that I can't quite make out clearly.

I look at Sarek and see genuine fear for his son, and my whole gut goes hollow at the pain of the sight. I'm a father, damn it. I wouldn't wish that kind of pain on anyone and I know Sarek's worry isn't idle. I've personally DOA'd twenty-seven Vulcan suicides this last week alone, and don't expect that to be the end of it. Jesus, these Vulcans can be so tough and yet so incapacitated before their grief all at the same time. I'm desperate to figure out what the hell I can do to help them, but I swear to God I won't let this kid—who put his life on the line to save this planet-go down that road. I owe him that. Every living creature on this planet does.

And I stand by my words: for some reason, still, I _like_ Spock. I guess I just trust my intuition. But you can't let your patients see you're running scared for them.

Sarek makes a small upturned hand gesture toward the Admiral: _what do I do?_ Helplessness. Something is very wrong in that dynamic. One of the most powerful men in the UFP and he feels helpless to reach out to his own son? Enough so that he defers to Greyson? Is it because of what happened on the Enterprise, or is this something deeper? Or older, perhaps?

Uhura. Beautiful, kind Uhura looks like she's running a marathon with all the energy she's using to stand perfectly still. You can practically see her vibrating in restraint. On the train ride up here I admitted to Uhura I'd seen the tear streaks on her monitor. In response she told me a story. She said she and Spock had a running, playful, argument over Shrodinger's Cat. She would side with the preposition that the observer determines the life or death of the cat in the famous scientific thought experiment. Spock would argue that the logic of the thought experiment was as flawed as wondering whether tomatoes were vegetables or fruit, an illogical metaphor applied to quantum superposition. Which, further, had on occasion proven to be hazardous to actual felines.

When Spock had said he was resigning to serve his people, Uhura anticipated their relationship would end. In those few minutes she'd had to herself over the last several evenings she would read her other messages. Then, she'd lean her head against her monitor and think about Shrodinger's Cat. Until she opened Spock's email, the results were unobserved. Their relationship was not yet a precluded possibility.

She had promised herself she would always be his friend, and first and foremost feared doing anything to make his situation any more difficult than it already was. And it was hard, she'd said, to hold back her questions. How trite and selfish it seemed to Uhura to want to know how he felt about their future together when he had the loss of his mother and the destruction of his home planet to deal with. And she had learned how Spock could perceive even as simple a question as "how are you" as an emotional imposition. Even more heartbreakingly she hesitatingly admitted she'd asked him on the Enterprise what he needed. She didn't tell me how he'd responded, but the look on her face was answer enough: not disappointment but helplessness. Interesting. Not unlike Sarek right now. But in the end, before she and I had left the Bay Area, she had opened Spock's messages after all. She did not say what they contained, but she'd smiled all peaches and cream when we arrived and he kissed her.

And then there was Spock's grandfather: here he was in his retirement suddenly being thrust into crisis not only in his own family, but being pulled back into the fray by Fleet as well. Yet he's taking it all in stride like a man accustomed to leadership. I can see Greyson is a true gentleman; and as an aspiring Southern gentleman I can spot one from a mile away. That type is few and far between. Greyson's aging, to be sure, but I can certainly see now that Spock comes by that same regal bearing honestly. Spock never went out of his way to advertise it, but as the ship's doctor I've known Spock was half human. It's a curious thing to see the evidence before my eyes, though, and to see the similarities in posture and mannerisms in a thoroughly human man.

Spock shifts his weight and taps his fingers against the mantel once, then nods at the hologram as if in confirmation of something. He straightens, blows out a sharp breath, and shakes his shoulders square. Reaching behind himself, he squares the bottom edge of his sweater then brushes the front neat, fastidious as any military man, even in casual wear. When he turns back to us, his face is controlled and, surprisingly, there is a warmth in his eyes I don't recall seeing only moments before.

"Since I seem to be in hot water," Spock pauses to look at each one of us in turn, "perhaps I should be the one to refresh the tea."

I turn away. Nobody needs to see my eyes sting with the relief I feel. The man is a _survivor_. I turn back to take the measure of the man. He is no less in pain—I can see it in the measured control of his movements, but he is gesturing with grace toward the kitchen, and smoothly moves to Uhura. He brushes her cheek with the back of his fingers and she looks up to him with a look that most men would ride to the ends of the earth to earn. He has. He stands tall with his father and grandfather and I think: _classy_._ This,_ as we'd say in Georgia,_ is a man of good breeding._


	12. Ch 12 Sulu

USS Enterprise, dry dock, Earth

Before he even felt Pavel's kick, he'd felt a weird tingling sensation in the back of his neck alerting him of an unfamiliar presence. Still on his back, Sulu slid out from under the navigation console to be met by a wide-eyed Chekov looking down at him.

"It seems vee haf company, Lieutenant." Pavel gestured with his head.

Sulu stood, his eyes narrowing at the young Vulcan male, standing just behind Chekov and escorted by a Fleet MP. At least, the Vulcan appeared young—it was hard to tell sometimes how old Vulcans were in human terms—and he wore unfamiliar robes. No one but maintenance personnel and security were supposed to be aboard.

"Who are you?"

"I am Skaal."

The Frigion guard balanced on her large toes and her feathers rustled. She spoke clearly despite her whistling accent. "Special request of the Vulcan Embassy, Lieutenant. They indicated it was medically related business." Skaal simply nodded his concurrence to Sulu.

Sulu cocked his head as Pavel stared. "What can I do for you?"

"This concerns Spock." The Vulcan seemed to consider for a moment. "Lieutenant Commander Spock. You were one of the three humans who space-dove aboard the Romulan drill, were you not?"

"Yes. I was." Sulu said slowly, wondering where this was going.

"I would like to extend a personal communication. Our elders will be granting you recognition for your valor on behalf of Vulcan. We are in your debt." He bowed deeply.

Sulu grimaced, the anguish he'd held down surfacing. "You don't know how sorry I am that we failed you. I'll take that to my grave."

"You fought as a Vulcan warrior." Skaal straightened. "If not for the transporter skill of this one and your chief engineer," Skaal pointed at Pavel, "your life would have been lost on Vulcan."

"Yes. This is true." Pavel looked rather self satisfied. Sulu did a slight eye roll at him and shot Pavel a warning glance.

"Well, the Captain and I both. And Engineer Olson gave his life in the mission. We thought we'd succeeded. Then the red matter detonated."

The young Vulcan glanced down for a fraction of a second. "Kirk and the memory of Olson will also be honored. Here my personal communication ends. I come as a Healer, apprentice to Healer T'Quila. We require you to supply us with your memory of the Lieutenant Commander Spock when he returned to your ship with the Elders. This is for diagnostic purposes. I understand you were present. The mind link to accomplish this will be slight and only momentary."

Sulu drew back, offended. "Absolutely not."

"I must press you that this is by request of Healer T'Quila." Skaal said, as if that explained everything. "There is nothing to fear."

"Oh, I'm not afraid. I'm just not willing to violate the Commander's privacy like that."

"I was at his place of residence immediately prior to this."

Sulu stood his ground, silent. "And your point?"

The young healer seemed at a loss how to proceed.

"How…may I convince you to provide this service?" Skaal asked slowly.

"You can't."

"Your objection is not logical. We are seeking to assist Spock."

"I've seen how Vulcans treat Spock. I'm not convinced what kind of help you'd be."

They held eyes in a battle of wills. "Fascinating. You are protective of him." Skaal said quietly.

"_Hai._ _Sō, desu ne_." Sulu responded levelly, slipping into Japanese. "He is my superior officer."

"Perhaps," Pavel interjected with youthful enthusiasm, "you could call Meester Spock for pehrmission?"

Skaal's mouth twitched and his eyes dropped. "A logical suggestion." He rummaged in his robes and handed a secure Vulcan diplomatic level communicator to Sulu. "I would be honored. Press the side button. It will contact the Greyson household 'com."

For the first time in Sulu's life he wished he could be a thief, lusting after such a magnificent and probably now priceless piece of technology. He felt a little embarrassed at being difficult with the healer, and began to wonder if he were following Fleet protocol on intercultural communications. Certainly, he ought to grant any Vulcan the benefit of a doubt. Then again… He pressed the button. Let the chips fall where they may. Banzai.

"_Robert speaking."_

"Ah, this is Lieutenant Sulu, on the Enterprise. Is Commander Spock available?_"_

There was a brief pause.

"_Yes, Mr. Sulu."_

"Healer Skaal is on-board with a request that I believe is a violation of your privacy, sir._"_

In the background someone's voice murmured _persistent little pest, isn't he? ___At least that was evidence this Vulcan really had recently been at Spock's family household—and made about the same impression.

"_Explain."_

Sulu passed the communicator back to Skaal.

"Skaal." The healer spoke quickly in Vulcanir standard, and handed the device back to Sulu.

"Sir?"

After a pause, his Commander spoke with audible resignation. "_It is up to you, Mr. Sulu. I…require assistance. The methodology is at the healers' discretion. Spock out._"

Sulu locked eyes with Skaal for a long moment. Finally Sulu broke the silence. "What do I do?"

"Oy." Pavel breathed. "You are one brave man."

"It is not what I will do, but what Healer T'Quila will do." Skaal tapped the button on his shoulder and spoke a single word. "Ready."

Instantly a transporter whine began, and the room brightened with the controlled and intensely powerful reorganization of energy into mass. The MP put her claw on her phaser.

Sulu was sure he heard Pavel exhale the Russian phrase for _oh, shit_.

_Yappari. _He couldn't put his finger on what it was. As an individual, Healer T'Quila was somewhat tall, slim, her hair platinum white and coiled in a chignon on the crown of her head-ordinary enough for a Vulcan elder. But her _eyes_…she was like some Japanese daemon. Not necessarily evil, but powerful. Just entirely…_other. _He had to resist the startling urge to fall to his knees.

She turned the burning grey eyes to Skaal. "You are still too slow. Continue to practice your human communication skills."

"Madam." Skaal bowed.

"Are you the one called Sulu?"

Sulu just nodded, swallowing, feeling disconcertingly disoriented. It was like confronting a hurricane or…a rose. A force of nature. How could that be? An ordinary looking woman; the powerful energy.

"Your thoughts. Be still." She strode to him her hand raising, and Sulu forced himself not to cry out or cringe. For less than a breath her fingertips brushed his temple. He felt _nothing_.

The healer bowed. "Arrigato gozaimashita, Sulu-san."

"You will feel dehydrated." Skaal was saying as Sulu blinked. "Just drink more water. It is a normal human reaction to mind touch with a healer."

He felt…well, first of all, relieved. But…some weight was oddly lifted. "I don't understand."

"There remains the shadow of guilt. Experience honor. This is my small gift to you. I will warn you that you may yourself…re-experience your guilt in its entirety should you so choose, however."

"No. I think I'll let it be." It was still there, but like a lion, tamed. "Healer. You…have what you needed?"

She nodded, then looked at Sulu thoughtfully. "You are a compassionate man." The Healer bowed again, then held a small film printout to him. "Kirk is at this location?"

"Ah…er, ah. That's…likely. You do understand what a bar is, Healer?"

The Healer stepped away, giving a slight nod to Skaal. "Energize." Skaal tapped the device on his shoulder and the two Vulcan's immediately dissolved in a swirl of bright energy.

For a moment neither man moved.

Pavel let out a long phrase in Russian that was either a prayer or a curse.

Sulu realized he was still gripping the Vulcan communicator.


	13. Ch 13 Orphans Arrive

Grayson's House – Robert Grayson

The arrival of six small Vulcan orphans

A/N: The household struggles to find a common language. Federation Standard ("Standard"), Earth Standard, Vulcanir (Golic) Standard, Shi'Kahri Vulcanir ("_Shi'Kahri_"), and English are all spoken, but presented 'in translation.'

A/N: Updated.

McCoy casually leans on the kitchen's butcher-block table. "What I can't figure out is how that healer knew I was a doctor. Came right to me. Makes me wonder if there isn't a certain fine look we medical people have that just broadcasts itself—"

"Doctor," Spock chides McCoy, handing him a fresh cup of tea. "You activated your medical scanner. It is audible to Vulcan ears."

"Oh. Well." The doctor makes a show of being deflated. "Regardless, we need to go over those medications Skaal recommended for you. But before I do, Sarek, I'd like to give you a quick once over."

The doctor wants to examine Sarek? Sarek looks unsurprised which alone is suspicious. Spock gives Sarek a quizzical look but Sarek looks away. I've found Sarek's willingness to be posted here instead of at the Embassy uncharacteristic, despite the excuse of over-crowding there.

"That will not be necessary." He has followed us into the kitchen and stands slightly apart. He puts his hands behind his back in a show of stubbornness.

"Ah, well, I was contacted in confidence by a Vulcan Elder who said it was very important that I check your-" McCoy hesitates and glances at Spock "ah, a few things to make sure you're completely healthy. Said he knew of an issue that could be of concern."

"I question the credibility of this source." The look on Sarek's face isn't one I'd like to tangle with.

McCoy pushes on, either oblivious or determined. "He also said you were certain to be an even more difficult patient than your son. He said something about Rigelian Fever?"

That gives Sarek pause, and father and son exchange glances: Sarek raises an eyebrow and Spock looks—oddly-both alarmed and sheepish. Spock knows something he's not telling Sarek. I'd bet on it.

The corners of Spock's mouth give the slightest twitch. "Perhaps this source has some credibility after all. It seems little harm would come from indulging the Doctor."

"Nice to have you on my side, Spock."

Before more can be said, there is a noise at the front door, and my grandson Robbie calls out. "We're here! Spock, I could use a hand."

Rob is standing in the doorway, ushering in a small flock of mostly dark haired and very hesitant children with T'Zel and another woman bringing up the rear.

"_Come in, come in._ _Welcome._" I say in Shi'Kahri, as levelly as I can. I am surrounded. Six huge pairs of eyes look up at me, all but one pair dark brown, all vulnerable as nestlings. They look to one another for reassurance then, but each one is as uncertain and disoriented as the next. They can't be more than five or six. Babies. "_Welcome to the House of Grayson. You are under the protection of this House." _I doubt if that is comforting to them, but at least my greeting should be recognizably Vulcan protocol.

"_Go in. Go._" T'Zel encourages them and they shuffle obediently into the foyer.

In my long lifetime around Vulcans I have _never_ before seen Vulcan children dirty and disheveled. The Vulcan Embassy must truly be in chaos.

Behind me the doctor exhales audibly-he's gathered that the children are orphans. I glance at him and his eyes are hard and suddenly red rimmed. He says softly, shaking his head, "Jesus. Little kids."

The boy, the slightly taller one with the blue eyes and dark blond hair, looks protectively at the other children then back at me. "_You speak our language._"

Spock steps forward, and to my surprise puts a hand on my shoulder. "_He is my grandfather._" With Spock's words the children look surprised, and they look back and forth between my grandson and myself.

"_Ah. You are Spock._" The same taller child states.

My grandson breathes out a short exasperated sigh. Even these little Vulcans know of him. "_Indeed._"

The blonde woman who has entered with T'Zel begins to introduce the children in better than average Standard Golic Vulcanir, starting with the boy who just spoke. "This is Savar. He's the oldest and the spokesman." She holds out her hand and I take it. She switches to English. "Karen Engvall, Children's Services. Usually for the State of California, but I've been deployed to UFP Emergency Services. Before I can finalize their placement here, I'll need some signed documentation from you and the Ambassador."

I see Sarek close his eyes, centering himself.

"Understood." I nod.

I let go of her hand. Engvall is a handsome late middle-age woman with kind dark eyes who appears to be of vaguely Scandinavian extraction. I am not yet too old to notice the wedding ring on her hand. Alas.

"Their luggage is still in the boat, Spock. If you don't mind…?" Rob prompts. The two young men head out the door purposefully.

"Let's see, and now the rest of you?" I say in Standard.

Engvall switches with me. "T'Pem here, and T'Nola are both little biologists."

I nod, observing them closely to determine how well they understand Standard. "Very good. My grandsons are all scientists. You should both fit in well here."

The little girls look at each other uncertainly.

"_I thought this was a temporary arrangement," _T'Nola whispers in Shi'Kahri, "_until things are fixed from the disaster and we can go home."_

"T'Zel," I switch to English, knowing I'll be unable to hide the emotion in my voice, "don't they know what happened?" Savar gives me a worried and annoyed look. He can tell I'm not speaking Earth Standard. He glances at the other kids, reassuring them.

T'Zel responds in kind to me, in English. "Who at the Embassy would presume to tell them? Especially considering all off planet adults have not yet been identified."

Engvall prompts the girls in Standard. "Your manners, girls?" She clearly hopes to instill in them the social skills they'll need to survive in a Federation without Vulcan.

They straighten, immediately at attention, as Vulcan children at school would be expected to respond.

"Pleased to meet you, sir. My name is T'Pem." She does not append her school's name as Vulcan children are trained to do.

"Pleased to meet you, sir. My name is T'Nola." She repeats in kind, but less fluently: her tone rote, flatly spoken and uninflected.

"_Do we have to shake hands?" _Sel whispers anxiously in Shi'Kahri.

"_You do not."_ Sarek responds firmly. The Ambassador the children know and trust. They relax a little, in visible relief.

"And who," I continue in Standard, "would these young gentlemen be?"

"This would be Sel, who is the history buff, and Sepek, who came to study art." The boys nod.

Engvall prompts them to go through the same introductory routine.

"Welcome, Sel. Sepek." I say to each in turn.

A little girl is nearly hiding behind the blond boy and she is very cute, with big black eyes in a heart-shaped face and slightly wavy black hair. "I don't believe this little lady has been introduced yet."

Savar moves closer to his cousin, suddenly speaking up in carefully pronounced Earth Standard. "She is my cousin, who is of the name Selar. She does not wish to speak."

Savar is challenging me, responding to my use of English, and I like it. I've always admired Vulcans who can hold onto a little spunk under all the pressure to conform. I've often applied the Japanese saying to describe Vulcan culture: 'the nail that sticks out gets hammered down_'._ God knows my grandson stuck out.

I look to T'Zel, with my eyes asking about Selar, and T'Zel shakes her head meaningfully. I squat down to the little girl's level and speak softly in Shi'Kahri. "_I'm pleased to meet you, too, Selar._"

She blinks at me once and shyly slides behind her cousin.

T'Zel brushes forward. "I have food prepared. Miss Uhura, Karen, perhaps you would help them to wash up?" Karen and Uhura share an anxious glance and at their hesitation she reassures, "Do not be so concerned about touching them. They will not break."

Savar balks. "_How shall we address the human Elder?_"

I'm not sure I like being identified as an Elder. I'm too full of piss and vinegar to be elderly.

T'Zel looks from Savar to me. "_Patriarch Grayson. But there is no similar term in Standard." _T'Zel cocks her head and continues in Standard. "Perhaps 'Grandfather Grayson'? As an honorary designation, if that is acceptable to you, Robert?"

"Let me hear it." I raise my eyebrows expectantly at the children, and all but Selar respond, trying it out. "Very good.' I try to look pleased without smiling, in the way Sarek can do so well.

"And you two." Savar points at Uhura and McCoy.

"Uhura." The children try out her name, finding it rather pleasant in its pattern of vowels. Uhura smiles at the almost cooing sound they make repeating her name. _Ooo-hoo-lah._

"Call me Doctor McCoy, kiddos." _Dok-tah-mak koh-ee kheet-dohss_.

T'Pem whispers to T'Nola. "_His name sounds like 'I am a cleaning pickle.'" _T'Nola shushes T'Pem.

There is a low tapping on the door like someone is gently kicking it, so I open it and find Spock and Rob back. They're loaded to their chins with luggage, bags, and blankets. "Where do you want this, Grandpa?" Rob asks.

"Let's try the upstairs bedrooms on the end nearest the bathroom. The boys in the den and the girls in…ah, in Amanda's old bedroom." I no more than suggest it and Robbie's off, Spock on his tail.

"Here I'll help with that." McCoy jumps in. "Sarek, why don't you follow along and we'll take care of that exam after, somewhere quiet."

But little Selar launches herself at one of the bags Spock's carrying, so he stops and puts down his bundles. She pulls one aside and worries it open to pull out a fuzzy object which she throws her arms around.

"Selar." Savar gently chastises her.

Sarek is very displeased. "Stuffed animals, T'Zel? This is not our way."

She looks out from the kitchen doorway. "The neighborhood firefighters brought them to the children at the Embassy." She shakes a spoon at Sarek's continuing disapproval. "It was a gift intended in _kindness."_

Without a word Sarek turns and heads up the stairs, taking two small suitcases with him as he ascends.

"_Children," _T'Zel calls in Shi'Kahri_. "There is a washroom down this hall. Come clean your hands and you shall partake of nourishment." _Savar motions to the children to follow him.

As Selar passes through the kitchen on the way to the downstairs bathroom, T'Zel motions her to one side. "_The '_teddy bear'_ may be seated in a chair of your choice while you clean up." _The child reluctantly seats the stuffed animal at the dining room table, then rejoins the other children.

I set out half a dozen bowls on the kitchen counter and rummage for spoons while T'Zel puts a small amount of cooked rice into each bowl. She then pulls a pot from the heating unit and places a walnut and raisin stuffed baked apple into each bowl, then ladles a little of the hot cooking liquid over each. I know the drink of preference is water so I decide to take care of that simple task. When she's finished distributing the bowls to the table, T'Zel takes a carton of vanilla soy milk from the stasis box, shakes it vigorously and places it in the center of the table for the children to pour over her concoction.

Engvall and Uhura are off collecting towels somewhere. The children are lined up for the bathroom, but nothing much seems to be happening there, so when Spock returns I send him down the hall to help the children.

Rob starts investigating the pot of baked apples and T'Zel threatens him off with her spoon of power.

Spock looks into the bathroom to see Savar running his hands over the walls, and Sel tentatively touching the sink fixtures, then touching them in various patterns of pats. They are clearly baffled.

"_We cannot identify the service triggering mechanism._" Sel states in Shi'Kahri, as he continues to lightly tap various locations on the sink.

It is an old house. Few devices are automated. Spock twists a knob counter clock-wise and water pours out of the spigot. Savar and Sel look dismayed.

"_Primitive._" Sel pouts. "_And most wasteful of water._"

Spock considers Vulcan custom and places a stopper in the bottom of the basin to fill it with water. He drops some liquid soap in and it bubbles up nicely. He demonstrates rotating the handle clockwise to stop the flow of water.

"_This basin is ready for your use." _The adjacent toilet catches his eye. "_It is also useful for you to understand how to operate this non-automated waste device."_ He lifts the lid to the seat to enable observation, the presses down on the toilet's handle. Water noisily swirls away. The children are suddenly embarrassed. "_You are concerned. Explain."_

Sel and Savar look away from him, their ears and cheeks glowing green. T'Nola actually puts her hand to her mouth in shame.

T'Pem peeks into the room. "_We have experienced waste devices with this appearance. The ones that did not function normally…we guessed the waste material was collected in them for agricultural purposes."_

Spock is visibly relieved when Uhura and Engvall appear, prepared to assume wash-up duty.

It is requiring the effort of all the adults present to attend to the children. I suppose it was unrealistic to take on their care. Spock and Sarek can't carry this load and T'Zel is needed at the Embassy. Robbie has his own family to care for. I can't do this alone. I'm starting to see the logic of Sarek's objections. Well, taking the children in isn't the first time either one of us has made an emotional decision. I cross to the 'com and page my sister. T'Zel glances at me, nodding her approval.

"Grace, this is Robert. I need your help."


	14. Ch 14 Sepek

Grayson Household

Uhura

As I return from seating Savar and Sel at the table I notice the third boy has strayed to the end of the hallway and stands looking out the window. Sepek? The artistic one, they'd called him? With a quick glance into the bathroom-Karen had wash-up under control with the little girls—I walk quietly to the side of the boy.

I'm pretty comfortable speaking in Shi'Kahri—after all, it's the language Spock and I usually use when we're together. "It is quite different from Vulcan." I offer softly.

He gives me a sideways glance that questions my sanity. I'd thought him just ordinary looking, a slim, typical kid; but his eyes set him apart. Vulcan kids typically have a tremendously intelligent look in their eyes, but this one's eyes have something extraordinarily _observant _in them, too.

"My statement of the obvious is what humans call a conversation opener. My intent was to ask if you would find talking helpful."

He now looks at me like I'm not very smart in addition to being one more crazy human.

I try a different tactic. "Do you have art supplies, Sepek?"

He blinks, that was not the question he expected. He turns away from the window to look at me, taking me in like a sponge. "How is that your concern?"

I think hard for a moment, thinking about Vulcan culture. "I am Spock's partner-of-choice. I am adjunct to this household. I offer to serve you."

He relaxes a little, and a little disappointment slips into his expression. "My drawing board and satchel were lost during transportation to the Embassy…after..." His face regains its expressionlessness. "It is possible they are either at the Embassy or may be returned there. My name is on them."

In Vulcan script, I think. Most likely no one will be able to read it. Worse, his things might become some horrible kind of Vulcan souvenir. "I'm sorry."

He turns back to the window. "What is, is."

"I'm an artist, too. I would be honored if you would accept some of the materials I have with me. Some paper, some drawing pens?"

That merited an interested glance over his shoulder, before turning his attention back to the window. My eyes follow his, and I can't decide if the garden would seem calming for it's monochromatic shadings of green or chaotic for the wild variety of plant-life shouldering together in every square centimeter of space.

Sepek glances over his shoulder again, and I glance back too, to see the three girls with Karen heading around the corner to the dining room. Sepek turns back to the window and something in me says to be very, very still and I close my eyes.

"T'Nola and T'Pem believe my logic is flawed regarding the disaster. That it is impossible for Vulcan to be _gone_."

I don't open my eyes, and—_I saw it happen_-try to control my face, but I can feel the tears fall. After a moment I feel Spock's hand on my shoulder and he pulls me to him, wraps his arms around me from behind. I open my eyes and Sepek is leaning his forehead against the glass. My tears had answered his unasked question.

"We should give him a moment…" Spock whispers into my ear.

Sepek straightens, and turns, expressionlessly taking us in. "I choose not to correct their error."


	15. Ch 15 The Ka'athyra

Robert Grayson's House, Seattle

Sarek's viewpoint

I am muttering to myself like an old fool. Kaiidth. What is, is. Logic dictates that there are humans willing and better prepared to provide appropriate emergency care of these children; humans not crippled by the grief we Vulcans must control. And to have accepted an entire lot of Shi'Kahri school children—not just one or two children: this is hubris.

It appears I have lost the power even to direct a household, nonetheless a people.

When Spock allowed the young female to withdraw the self-comfort object from his packages, I collected these two small travel cases and allowed my frustration to direct the speed with which I mounted the stairs. I pay the price for my momentary lapse. The pain in my side forces me to hesitate at the top of the stairs and reminds me of the heart valve repair surgery I had quietly scheduled in Shi'Kahr next month. The next month that will now never be. I had wished to spare my wife and son worry. Does the capacity for the needed repair even exist on earth? It is unlikely, and my rare blood type only compounds the situation.

Spock gives me a concerned look as he passes, his expressive eyes for that moment so much like his mother's it worsens the pain. He follows his cousin to the den with items for the young boys. These small gray travel cases, containing all that two of the young female Vulcans now possess, go to Amanda's old room. I find I must force my steps that direction. Her room.

Two steps into the ordinary small bedroom I find myself unable to move further. It is the same, but not a shrine—Amanda's father is not overly sentimental in that way. But the wall color has not changed since she last slept here in my arms. Mementos and holograms remain on these shelves: holograms of my dead wife. Faintly, very faintly I sense the lilac and sandalwood smell of her, or at least the room evokes it. Here, the chess championship ribbons; the trophies for linguistics competitions; holos of Amanda and I before and after Spock's birth; before the other failed pregnancies. Before we lost Spock's sister, Skene. I would have spared her all unhappiness, she who loved me to the depths of our being.

Amanda…

The light in this room filters through a thin, sheer fabric that diffuses and refracts the light like water. Like her. Full of light and as mutable as this planet's changing sea. Pearlescent.

Young Rob is attempting to take the suitcase from me. When did he enter? I do not recall hearing his footsteps. For a moment I am confused by what he is attempting. The two small females-this is all they have, and I hesitate to release…

"Uncle Sarek, I'll take care of this." Rob pulls again, trying to take it away from me by its small handle.

I force myself to let go. I blink and place the second travel case on the floor. I turn to see both Spock and the doctor watching me. I straighten and breeze past them. "My room is adjacent to this one, doctor."

The human doctor does not hurry to follow, and I am granted a moment to compose myself before he enters the room. He closes the door behind himself and appears to adjust the controls to a small medical device.

"I don't pretend to be an expert on Vulcan physiology, but I have been trained in the basics."

I am seated on the bed and place my hands on my knees. "Proceed."

There is a furrow between his brows, and I believe he already suspects the truth. My color, my abnormal breathing pattern: these things would be obvious to a physician, even a human one. I am avoiding his eyes, I realize, and the doctor will not miss this evasion.

He hesitates, then puts the device behind his back. "Something you ought to be telling me, sir?"

I let the moment draw out longer than I should, but the human does not break the silence.

"There is no immediate solution to my dilemma. I was scheduled for surgery next month in Shi'Kahr."

McCoy nods, considering. "I wondered why you wouldn't be in the thick of things at the Embassy."

I meet his eyes. "It appears my family is stressful enough." I say wryly, an attempt at defusing the tension of the situation.

The doctor isn't deflected by this. "Most are." He raises his scanner and after only one point three-four seconds begins to curse under his breath.

I raise an eyebrow. "A most fascinating prognosis. Or is that a treatment? With human medical services it is sometimes difficult to discern."

"I see where your son gets his respect for my profession." The doctor volleys, this time with humor. "What's your plan?"

"I have no plan."

The doctor frowns. "This could kill you, you know."

I nod once to confirm that I am aware of the seriousness of my situation. "It is why the other surviving Elders insisted I absent myself from the Embassy."

In the living room below I can hear the soft tones of the ka'athyra begin and I close my eyes at the sound. A folk tune: 'The Lematya Hunts.'

"I'll see what I can arrange for you through Fleet. Doctor M'Benga, my associate, interned on Vulcan. He'll likely be the one put in charge of your treatment. Will that be acceptable?"

I wave my hand. Accepting. Indifferent. The sound of the ka'athyra is more than I can bear, the sound of Vulcan and the voice of our history. This one I taught Spock: 'Winds on the Forge'….

I can hear the doctor's scanner. "Sarek, this would be a good time to make use of your Vulcan control—"

Outrage fills me suddenly. I hear a human tune, 'ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall' and I am on my feet at the abomination. On the _ka'athyra-! _I hear Spock's human woman laugh.

Before I know what has happened I am in the living room, panting. "_KROYKAH!" I forbid_. I shout. "How dare you insult our history in this way. How dare you contaminate these Vulcan children with such human drivel."

Spock is too stunned to speak, and the harp lowers to his knees. The little children are circled around him on the floor, and they too stare at me, stunned.

Uhura stands. "It's not what you think. It's really very clever. The repeating tune is a mnemonic device for learning the periodic table of the elements, with Spock's chordal progressions and major and minor modes describing the positive and negative atomic—"

"Vulcan children do not require such human crutches."

Spock carefully places the harp beside him on the couch and swiftly leaves the house. Uhura gives me an appalled look and follows Spock.

That littlest Vulcan female bends her face to the floor and sobs.

The fair-haired boy stands, his control slipping, angry. "Must we become human?"

McCoy brushes past me and takes the little girl in his arms. "There, there little one. Now where did we leave that teddy?"

I bend at the waist, the pain in my side blinding me. I hear Robert's rapid footsteps nearing.

This is the reason for logic, for the culture that had saved us for two thousand years. Saved us from striking out in pain for pain; for hearing what one thinks is an abuse of our culture and striking out at one's own son in words sure to wound him in his most vulnerable of places. Oh, Amanda. Forgive me.


	16. Ch 16 Post Outburst

Robert Grayson's House and Boathouse

Uhura's view

I wondered where T'Zel had gone to. When I left the house to follow Spock, I saw her to one side chatting with the social worker. Behind her back, facing away from the social worker, T'Zel makes a sharp beckoning gesture with her fingers. Spock is heading for the dock, but I hesitate, then go to the other women.

"No, I am not certain which key is the correct one, Ms. Engvall."

The social worker looks with dismay over the large and rather full key ring and back at T'Zel.

"Miss Uhura, perhaps you can assist? I believe there are some additional bedding materials in the boat house loft. And Ms. Engvall can evaluate the appropriateness of the location as an exercise room during the more normal wet weather. As the saying goes: if you can see Mount Olympus it is going to rain."

I widen my eyes at T'Zel in a warning. She is trying too hard. I laugh a little, speaking of trying too hard. "And if you can't see it, it is raining." I've heard this one from Spock.

Engvall rolls her eyes, then turns and walks toward the boathouse. "That one's older than the hills, ladies."

T'Zel gives me a desperate glance and mouths 'five minutes,' then rushes back into the house.

I hurry after the social worker. T'Zel is fast. She must have hustled Engvall out of the house at the sound of the rapid-fire footsteps on the stairs, before Spock's father had raised his voice. One word, 'I forbid,' sharply, in Golic Vulcanir and the words that followed spoken levelly in Standard but their meaning was cruel. Yes, he may be grieving, but that was lashing out. Had the social worker witnessed the scene she may well have reconsidered permitting the placement of the children. I don't want to deceive the social worker, either, but the circumstances are anything but normal.

Spock is standing Vulcan formal at the end of the dock looking seaward. I am probably projecting, but I imagine him wishing he were anywhere else right now.

I make polite talk small with Karen as we finally figure out which key opens the boathouse, and climb the unfinished stairs to the loft. I'm surprised at the large airy space. There are a few stacks of trunks and boxes, but the space is mostly empty. There is a door to a small balcony that looks out to the Sound—just large enough to watch the sailboat launch I suppose. In all this summer sunlight the view across the water toward the other islands is spectacular. The water sparkles brilliantly, and shorebirds glide by—species of geese and ducks that are unfamiliar to me. It's a nice enough space that I'm rather surprised to find it so unused.

Engvall pokes at some large bags. "These look like the sleeping bags to me. I'd prefer cots for the kids, but I suppose the family can take care of that later." Karen says, picking up a bulky roll. She looks down for a moment, then into my eyes "It's…terrible. About Vulcan, I mean."

I'm unsure how to respond. I don't need to tell anyone just how close this planet came to the same fate: too damn close. But it was almost terrible about earth, too.

"Spock…flew a ship into the Romulan vessel to destroy it. He didn't expect to survive." Nor did I expect him to return. He would never have kissed me in front of Kirk if he had thought otherwise. "He's a hero, too."

My throat tightens at the injustice of Kirk's promotion: Fleet's dropping of the hearing, all the accolades for Kirk. After what he did to break Spock. Yes, we wouldn't have been close enough to earth to save it without Kirk's intervention, but Kirk saved Pike. Spock saved _the planet. _Fleet's still suspicious because that mad Romulan Nero called Spock by name, blamed him. Because they don't understand what it all means yet, Fleet doesn't dare to recognize Spock. And he's said nothing in his own defense. He wouldn't.

"Honey—" Engvall says, throwing down the sleeping bag and throwing her arms around me. "We're safe thanks to all of you. It was thanks to _all _of you."

I'm surprised and awkward, but return the hug. She's right. She's more right than she could possibly know. But, God, the cost paid in lives. And the consequences for the Federation have only just begun.

I _can't_ linger in the woman's kindly meant embrace. I release her and pick up one of the sleeping bags and she follows, giving me a measuring look, which she repeats as we walk back up the hill and I keep looking over my shoulder toward where Spock still stands on the dock, alone.

In the house, T'Zel is nowhere to be seen, but Doctor McCoy and Spock's grandfather and cousin hover over Ambassador Sarek who is seated at the dining room table. Leonard waves the medical scanner over Sarek while speaking in quiet, urgent tones on his 'com.

Engvall takes in the scene. "I'll take these upstairs. Maybe you can see if they need help."

I hear T'Zel's voice in the living room and she sounds like she's teaching some kind of lesson.

Tea. There's always tea. I remember where Spock pulled out the supplies earlier and make a cup of Vulcan herbal tea for Spock's father, a peace offering.

"No, Scotty, the hell with permits. I need it now." McCoy growls into the 'com. He flips the 'com off, then reopens it impatiently. "Code Four. M'Benga." His fingers tap impatiently on the table as he waits for a response.

Grayson shocks me by placing a hand on the Ambassador's shoulder and squeezing. He doesn't let the gesture linger, but turns and walks to the window. "Where the hell is Grace?"

"Should I call her on the short-wave?" Rob asks.

I slide the cup of tea toward Sarek, who sits expressionlessly, fingertips steepled in his lap. He stares at the teacup and I bite back a whole load of bitter words, most amounting to variations on _stop hurting him._

The Doctor's 'com beeps. "M'Benga."

"Hey—good to hear your voice. I need a favor." The doctor wanders away from us, talking as he heads outside. As he goes I can just see past Spock's grandfather, and a transporter glow breaks onto the table outside, some kind of parcel appearing. Engineer Scott is good, amazingly good.

Grayson replies to Rob. "No, she's on her own clock, as always. Spock's down there. He'll help her if she needs."

Sarek's eyes meet mine and—as with Spock—the depth of those Vulcan eyes make me feel like I'm falling into a gravity well. My heart aches for them both.

"My apologies, Miss Uhura. Your explanation of Spock's intent was most appropriate."

An apology. To me. From Vulcan's Ambassador to Earth. From a man who just lost his planet and wife before his eyes. Everything. Who do I think I am to judge him? I feel my face burn with shame for my arrogance, and then my temper rises. "Apology accepted, sir, but I hope you will extend the same to Spock."

He lowers his eyes for a moment, then meets mine again. "Of course. In time."

"Today." I blurt, my eyes flashing.

Sarek's eyebrows rise. Then he slowly nods once, and something in his eyes seems amused.

McCoy blusters back into the room, carrying a freshly opened box of medical equipment. He looks to Rob and me. "Ok, you two. Out."

As I leave the room with Rob, I overhear McCoy. "I want you to wear this monitor for now…"

Rob heads for the stairs. "I think I'll see if I can help lay out those sleeping bags."

I think in passing that Rob Grayson is almost as handsome as Spock. Almost.

Perhaps T'Zel needs some help with the children. I head to the living room and find T'Zel has taken over Spock's music lesson, and the children are now circled attentively around her feet. Selar has her arms around the teddy bear and leans on her cousin Savar. The two little girls sit closely together, T'Nola's head on T'Pem's shoulder. Sel and Sepek sit formally on their feet, hands crossed on their laps; clearly demonstrating their Vulcan-ness.

"And again, a Klingon K'Gahkk chord." She plucks a particularly dissonant tonal cluster on the Ka'athyra. "Now listen to this one." And she plucks an E minor seventh. "Infinite diversity in infinite combination, is it not?"

The children nod in understanding at T'Zel. She looks up at me. "_Asante._" Thank you, in Swahili.


	17. Ch 17 Kirk & the Healers

Fleet Shipyard, Iowa

Captain James T. Kirk

A/N: Language warning: No worse than TV, but Kirk's language is rougher. Technical references from Memory Alpha.

Kirk leaned back on the cheap chrome-legged chair in the dingy bar and hoped the thing wouldn't break under him. His head swam. Damn, but he couldn't seem to drink enough to stop thinking. His throat ached. Ached and burned. Seemed like there wasn't a vulcanoid in the sector that hadn't given a shot at ripping it out. Goddamn it hurt still. At least in this Iowa bar no one knew him, or those that did lived so far back on the north forty that they didn't look at him like a hero; didn't know who he was or care. He'd wanted to see his brother George: to tell him he could get the hell out, too. Maybe even see if there wasn't a little respect in his eyes for a change.

Who was he kidding?

George. George so messed up he'd told him to go to hell and slammed the door in his face. What was that about? Jealousy? He'd been so good at science and math. In San Francisco Kirk could imagine a whole different life George could have. He could have been an amazing research scientist. Still could. Like he should care. OK, of course he did.

Damn the place smelled like beer, puke and greasy french fries. If someone cranked up honky tonk music he'd have to look for a phaser to stun himself out of his misery.

In this position his head swam even worse. He lolled forward letting his face slam into the table, and studied the lines of the fake wood graining as if they were star charts. Two days of congrats and brouhaha and parading around and backslapping. Two days of looking for his crew to be paraded out and celebrated, too, thinking they were keeping it a surprise. Then the dog and pony show was over and he was old news. Take leave, rest, that's an order.

He wasn't used to the political machine of Fleet and the UFP, the PR people and star makers. He'd gone along with it all, while asking about the crew. Where were they? When was their turn? Even asking after Spock, what they planned to do to recognize what he'd done-not that the Vulcan bastard would care. OK, it might have been his plan, but damn it, Spock had gone along with it: had flown a ship he'd never touched before, maneuvered it to shoot down the Romulan drill, gotten the craft into warp-somehow knowing Nero would follow-before taking a suicide dive into the Narada. The same suicide dive his _father_ had taken and they'd named a shipyard after him. Spock had saved the _earth_, not just 800 people. No one else out of the entire crew—himself included—could have pulled off that wild flight. Not even _Sulu_.

And Fleet had acted like Spock didn't exist. He was sure it wasn't anything as considerate as giving him time to grieve his losses. _So what_ if he resigned his temporary command. It didn't change anything else Spock'd done. Taking down Spock as Acting Captain had only been a means to an end for Kirk: his end was saving earth. Kirk sure as hell had no interest in taking credit for Spock's part in accomplishing that mission.

Yeah, he'd saved Pike on his own, more or less, with Spock's voodoo-ing out Pike's location from the Romulan; then Pike, _injured_, had covered him from the table he was strapped to. Once they were all back on the Enterprise he could even be proud of himself for saving the ship and actually goddamned _leading_ for once. But how dare they act like he was a one-man band. He felt…used. Used for propaganda: Fleet Kid Shines and Saves Earth—not 'we stupidly left Vulcan defenseless by sending the bulk of the fleet to the Laurentian system with nothing to defend the rear but second tier ships and a bunch of cadets.'

How dare he celebrate anything, Kirk thought, with the six billion dead Vulcans he'd failed on his conscience. An entire _planet _gone: a _founding_ planet of the Federation that had protected and guided earth for at least a hundred years; centuries longer if you counted pre-contact years._ Plus _seven ships destroyed…all those classmates…Gaila…

Yeah, he'd gone along with the show, getting the Captaincy of the Enterprise. He'd loved it. Why not, when he'd had so little to celebrate in his life? So little positive recognition that he was more than a delinquent, that he had _potential_? But he didn't know how he could face his crew after letting himself be paraded around like the all conquering hero. And Spock. Shit. He had to do something about that…when Kirk could stand up and be a man again.

Spock sucking it up after resigning his commission and coming back to the bridge had shown him what real character looked like. Kirk didn't know if he could have done it had the tables been turned. But then again, he wasn't Vulcan. Not even part.

And speaking of…

What the hell were these guys doing in a grubby bar in Iowa? Oh, no, and heading for him? Shit.

They looked as embarrassing as Vulcans usually did when they tried to blend in. The woman was wearing a denim jacket over her Vulcan Healer's robes and her flowing white hair had the kinks in it of someone who had just unpinned a complex updo. A much younger, put upon looking Vulcan male followed her…oh for god's sake wearing a cheap duckbill hat? Sometimes Vulcans really had no respect for human intelligence.

His head swam. He wanted to puke. For a change he actually wanted Leonard to come save him.

What was the punch line? Two Vulcans walk into a bar….something about Nantucket?

They stopped in front of him. "Help me," he squeaked to himself.

The woman's grey eyes were kind of mesmerizing, he thought from his tabletop vantage point. Not in the MILF kind of way, but…really kind of interesting. Powerful? He _liked _older women, but he preferred his own century age-wise. Although…he could always make an exception. Naw. A Vulcan? Didn't even sound remotely fun. But possibly funnier than hell…all technical directions…'three point one kilos of pressure applied precisely—'

"In what way do you require assistance, Kirk?"

Oooo. Throaty voice. Nice.

With no small effort he pushed himself into an undignified slouch of a sitting position. "I'm fine. Sorry for fucking up," he waved a finger at them, "in a letting your planet get destroyed kind of way." His eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out onto the floor.

T'Qilah turned to Skaal and raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, no. Healer. Please. He smells as bad as this bar."

"Hey." The bartender looked up sharply, speaking in Vulcanir Standard. "We're not stupid here. I speak eight off-world languages."

The Healer handed her nasal paralyzing spray to Skaal who double dosed with it before picking up the human.

"Where you taking that guy?" The bartender didn't look at all happy with the idea of aliens abducting his patrons. At least, not before they paid up.

"Indeed, Skaal. Where are we taking him?" T'Qilah placed what seemed to be adequate credits on the counter and the bartender turned back to the newscast playing in the far corner.

Keeping his head averted from his human parcel, the young male Vulcan reached into his robes and rummaged. "I…seem to have mis-located…"

T'Qilah opened her communicator and held it out to her assistant.

He calculated the time for the call to the Embassy, the referral to Fleet, the authorization codes—

T'Qilah turned the communicator back to herself, clicking it once. "Energize, Mr. Scott."

"Think 'outside the box', Skaal." The elder Healer suggested, as the transporter beam took them.

Kirk woke on the floor of his quarters at Fleet and wondered what had happened. And when.

"You have a shower. Consider using it."

Kirk jumped to his feet, his brain catching up a few seconds later. "Who the hell are you!" It wasn't really a question. He grimaced and pressed his fists to his temples, hung over.

"I am Healer Skaal." The young male Vulcan looked at him as if he were evaluating whether Kirk had truly returned to consciousness. "I am now attached to the Vulcan Embassy, apprentice of Healer T'Qilah. We intended to gather information on Commander Spock, but your advanced state of alcohol poisoning required a revision to our plans."

"Great. So the floor seemed like a good recovery location to you?"

"Preferable to the floor of the Iowa bar if marginally cleaner."

"Thanks."

He inclined his head. "You are welcome."

Skaal clearly didn't get sarcasm, Kirk thought. Spock was a master of it.

The Healer rose and handed Kirk a large glass of lukewarm water. "Hydration is recommended for your condition."

"Great. Now all I need is aspirin." _Sarcasm._

The Healer held out one of Kirk's own small dishes. It contained two small white pills. "You will find these superior."

Kirk shrugged and washed the pills down with the glass of water, then refilled the glass with cold water from the tap. McCoy would kill him for taking mystery medicine. "Now what?"

"Shower. Then talk."

"And you don't have anything better to do?"

"I am tasked with attending you." He looked down. "Having nothing to do for the eight minutes it should take you to clean yourself will be my first rest period in seven standard earth days. I shall meditate. Should it take you the twelve minutes that would optimize my meditative rest state…I shall not complain. You will be relieved of your tortilla chips and guacamole if I find it is not too contaminated for my consumption."

Kirk tilted his head as he examined Skaal. Huh. So…was that Vulcan sarcasm? Served him right for toying with a Healer.

Skaal wasn't kidding. When Kirk got out of the shower fifteen minutes later, as predicted feeling and smelling much better, the guacamole container was emptied and chip crumbs were scattered on the floor. He knew Vulcans avoided touching food with their hands, so the guy had to be starving to eat out of an open bag of tortilla chips. 'Meditation' looked a whole lot more like 'curled up on the couch', but what did he know?

He decided just to wait around until Skaal woke, and had settled himself into a chair. He was startled when not five minutes later the woman he vaguely recalled from the bar transported into his living room. The younger Vulcan startled awake, but was ignored by the woman. The beam faded but the sense of intense energy didn't. Kirk found himself on his feet, wary.

She was a lot more intimidating when he wasn't too inebriated to see straight. Her hair was up in a chignon, and the ridiculous denim jacket was gone. "I am Healer T'Qilah. Your thoughts, Kirk."

She was coming at him like old Spock had, and it had not been a pleasant experience to be flooded with the emotions of a Vulcan who felt responsible for the destruction of his planet.

"Wait a minute. What is this about?"

"Commander Spock is in need of psionic assistance. Your perceptions of him will help me correctly evaluate his level of damage. The link is superficial. You may feel nothing."

"So you're sightseeing."

"I would not characterize it as such." T'Qilah reponded evenly.

In the background Skaal murmured, "He too is protective of Spock."

"And just what are you treating?"

"He is sickened by sensing the deaths of our people as Vulcan was destroyed. Normal mental shielding did not work properly for him, either by choice or due to his human physiology."

"How can anyone feel that? Six billion deaths. How?"

"You subscribe to Stalin's view: a single death is a tragedy, a million a statistic?"

"No. I don't mean that at all. I mean what could that possibly feel like?" Kirk breathed, horrified at the thought, not expecting an answer. Not wanting one.

"The rush of a nuclear blast or the sound of a volcanic explosion. Loud beyond hearing. Primal. Crushing. As though your flesh is being vaporized from your body. There are autonomic barriers, however, protecting most telepaths from overwhelming stimulus. We should not sense such events. But for those who do… it can be physically and mentally damaging."

"But, he's functioning like everyone else."

Skaal spoke up. "Inaccurate. He only appears so."

How the hell was Skaal managing to eat tortilla chips with a _fork_? Well, the bits on the floor were explained anyhow.

Kirk sank into a chair. No wonder he was able to push the Commander over the edge. He was already well past it. He envisioned a cornice of snow high on a mountain, taking nothing more than the shock wave of an echo to make it collapse in an icy avalanche. "He wants this?"

"He has requested assistance. He accepts that we are data gathering. Your Navigator Sulu required Spock's verbal confirmation of his authorization, but has provided assistance."

Kirk made a mental note to give Sulu one more commendation for loyalty and good judgement. Whether it was curiosity, a certain boundary disorder sluttishness, or simply that he'd gone through so much lately that he was too emotionally worn down to care he didn't know: he shrugged. "Have at it. Welcome to the madhouse."

T'Qilah's mouth narrowed into thin line. "I shall hope not." She reached for his temple, her fingertips lightly touching, but rather than the simple quick touch indicated, spread her hand more fully and closed her eyes.

Skaal stood. "Healer?"

The Healer pulled her hand away, staring at Kirk. She tightened her hand into a fist.

"Was that it?" He hadn't felt anything, much. Not like with old Spock.

The Healer stared at her fist as though it contained something. She turned away from Kirk and walked to the window.

"Spock attacked you."

"I intentionally provoked him."

"You bear him no ill will."

He thought about making a smart-ass comment then thought better of it. "No. Wouldn't say he returns the favor, though."

Skaal started to advance toward Kirk, not in a threatening way.

"No, Skaal. Do not touch him." The woman said without turning.

_Excuse me? _ Kirk thought.

She returned to Kirk, her gray eyes blazing and alien. "Who was this elder who melded with you?"

"Fleet business, Healer," he said tiredly, not wanting to go into the time travel story, not sure he should. Pretty sure he shouldn't. He puzzled why she hadn't just pick it out of his brain. He had an intuitive and uncomfortable feeling that old Spock himself might have blocked access to that information somehow.

"Selek? In your thoughts you call him Selek. But that is not his true name."

"Again, not mine to say." Could cause time-ending paradoxes or something.

"It was inappropriate that he fully melded with you without your trained understanding."

He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. "There were mitigating circumstances at play." Like alternate universes and mad Romulans. Naw. He was bullshitting. "I guess."

"You are a survivor both of the Kelvin and Tarsus. And of a less than exemplary childhood."

"I didn't ask for any of that. It's _over." _Just how deeply did _she_ screw around in his brain?

"You are wrong." She exchanged sharp sounding words in Vulcanir with Skaal, then turned back to him. "Kirk. You are…a mess."

"Tell me about it." More_ sarcasm._

She complied with his request. "Fleeting adjustments are inadequate for your psychological injuries. I offer assistance to you in processing your pain."

I've got McCoy for a shrink, Kirk thought. But whether he specialized in curing or creating pathology was debatable. What the hell was up with the hypos to the neck?

Kirk stood, crossing his arms over his chest. "I _need_ my pain. If I require help with it I'll be sure to let you know."

"Fascinating." T'Qilah said, finally. They continued to face each other in some kind of nonverbal standoff. "Your mind is not a madhouse." The unreadable eyes bore into his. "You have been of assistance. Human protocol suggests I offer the words 'thank you.' "

Skaal moved beside Healer T'Qilah, and tapped a medlink pin on his shoulder. "Energize." And they were gone.

Along with the bag of tortilla chips, he noted. "You're welcome." Kirk said into the silence. "I guess."

A/N: _"Bar" in Golic Vulcanir utilizes the Federation Standard word. If you please, T'Qilah is pronounced T'Kwill-uh, or Tukwilla (after an actual location in the State of Washington.) If Skaal hadn't mooched Kirk's chips and guacamole ('oh, no-'tequila',') the author would never have noted this possible mispronunciation. Thus, Skaal forces the divulgence of the true source of Healer T'Qilah's name to preserve the Healer's honor. That Skaal…_


	18. Ch 18 Grace

Greyson's House; Tide's in

Uhura's view

A/N: For Aunt Grace, visualize a morph of Lauren Hutton and Jane Goodall, with Winona Ryder's eyes.

I look down at Spock lying prone on the dock. I put my hands on my hips, studying him. For a minute, he'd scared me, lying there. But his nose is over the edge of the dock and he's studying the bottom of the estuary. Saved by science, I think to myself. Finding his place in the world; finding the place in the universe open to him, to his curiosity; that lets him be.

The afternoon light is so different here from Africa. Despite being August, the light is silver and thin and the warmth of it barely holds back the cold that lifts from the Sound's salt water. Spock, with a long stick he's gotten from somewhere, gently parts the aquatic grass as it waves in the tide. He's clearly looking for something.

I seat myself beside him on the warm boards of the dock, sitting close but not touching, and I lean sideways to watch. He's on his stomach, his chin resting on one fist as he peers intently into the water.

"Anything interesting?"

"I should like to see a pipefish. They are part of the eelgrass ecosystem. Or a nudibranch."

I laugh. Whatever it is it sounds funny.

He glances sideways at me, a slight rise to his eyebrow. "It is a marine invertebrate. They sport iridescent plumes that are, in fact, gills."

"Hmm." I settle in beside him, just being quietly peacefully together.

I study the tall surrounding trees, standing like sentinels around the property's garden. Sailboats glide back and forth out on the Sound, no surprise on such a beautiful summer day, I suppose. That makes me glance back at the sailboat on the other side of the dock. I don't recall Spock ever saying anything about sailing before. Odd, since the Academy has a competitive sailing crew. Maybe it's like so many other things: he just keeps it to himself. There's such a big part of him that doesn't know how to _belong_, and I suspect it's part of what attracts me to him, makes me want to pull him into the fold. He's told me a little about being ostracized as a child, but I hadn't guessed that he had _issues_ with his father. Of course he never spoke of such a thing.

"Here, quickly." He says softly.

I roll onto my stomach next to him, peering into the shallow salt water. Where, where?

He gently moves the stick and suddenly there's a movement, a translucent shimmer and my eyes focus onto a tiny, thin fish with a long snout. "Oh, I do…" It shyly slides back between the waving dark blades.

"They are related to seahorses. The males carry the pregnancies in this species."

I push myself back into a sitting position, laughing. "Sounds good to me."

He rolls onto his back, looking up at me. "You shall be a good mother someday."

"Someday." I study him, his expressionless face, and wonder what he's thinking. "And thank you, I guess."

"You are wondering what I'm thinking."

I laugh a little. "Well, I didn't ask because I think the answer would be that you were looking for fibonacci sequences and golden ratios in the plants and animals under the dock."

He looks a little abashed.

I run a finger down his elegant nose. "You are who you are." I lean back onto my hands, letting the sun warm my face; he stays on his back, and closes his eyes.

After a while, I tentatively I bring the elephant into the metaphorical room. "Your father…"

"I do not wish to discuss it." He says evenly, with no emotion.

I look away and sigh a little: neither surprised nor disappointed. I shrug mentally; I plan to hold the Ambassador to his capitulation. He _will_ apologize. I don't put up with anyone giving Spock crap and thinking they can get away with it.

The sun on my face feels fabulous. I need to get outdoors more often. I wonder what it would feel like to glide across the water in the little sailboat. Why not ask?

"Spock…" As I turn back to him I think I see a shine running back from the corner of his eye downward to his hairline, but the effect is lost as he suddenly sits up.

"I do not wish to discuss my father _at this time._" He says evenly. "Another time, perhaps. However…it is not my intent to push you away."

"Actually, I was wondering if you'd take me out in your sailboat."

He looks down. "I see. Yes. I would like to do that." He says, a little lacking in enthusiasm.

"No, only if you want to."

He reaches out and cups my face with his hand for a moment. "I requested help from a Healer. I would not wish to cause offense by being absent when she arrives. There are many needing a Healer's services and their time is valuable."

His hand slips behind my head; he pulls my face to his and leans his forehead against mine. "I am grateful for your presence. I understand Intel resisted granting you even this brief respite."

"Yeah."

"You will return here soon? To me?"

I nod, suddenly feeling a lump in my throat that I can't explain.

"Perhaps at that time my family and I will be more capable of offering pleasant hospitality."

"Don't make me a guest, Spock. Let me be closer than that. At least your friend."

He kisses me. Lightly at first and then we get a little carried away for a moment until he pulls back.

"A friend. And more than a friend, most certainly." He says softly, continuing to stroke my face with his fingertips. "I should attend my father."

"Spock…for your own sake, maybe it's about what kind of son _you_ want to be, regardless of his actions. Proactive, not reactive."

His expression doesn't change, but he nods as he stands. "If you could keep an eye out for my Aunt Grace and assist her if needed it would be appreciated. She should arrive at any time."

I watch as he walks up the hill back to the house neither quickly nor slowly: but surely resolute. I settle in to enjoy a moment in the sunlight; to enjoy the sweet breeze and the birdsong. Or are those chirps from squirrels chattering in the trees?

"Hey! You there."

I look around for the source of the female voice, then realize it's coming from behind me—from the water. I turn and see a lone woman in a sea kayak. She waves a paddle at me and points toward a place farther along the shoreline.

"The neighbors. Can you pull me in there? It's too rocky here." She yells to me, as far as I can tell.

I yell 'ok' back to her, waving, and follow her along the shoreline, nearly running. For a short distance I have to wind through the tall trees, then pop out at another lawn, but here the beach is lower: coarse sand and gravel. This must be Grace, I think. She has shoulder length gray hair, and feisty dark eyes. I can't determine her age, whether she's older or younger than Robert Grayson, I can't tell. But she's athletic enough to handle the long sea kayak with the ease of someone driving a flitter.

"Took me longer than expected. You probably saw all those sailboats out in the channel." The boat noses into the gravel of the beach with a _shush _and, only guessing at what I'm supposed to do, I hold the nose of it steady.

"It's a lot windier around the point than I expected." The woman uses her double bladed oar to push the craft parallel to the beach. "This is the hard part for an old lady." She holds out her hand for me and I reach toward her. She doesn't grasp my hand, but takes my arm by the wrist to pull herself up out of the kayak.

"Thanks." She stands and leans hands on her knees for a moment, getting her land legs and breath back. After a moment she straightens and holds out her hand. "OK. I'm Grace. And you are?"

"Uhura. Spock's friend. From Fleet."

"Oh, _you're _the one everyone was talking about!" She smiles joyfully, and her eyes sparkle. "We were sorry you couldn't make the memorial. But no worries. Just family gossiping."

I give her a tentative smile back, groaning a little inside.

"Hate to put you to work first thing, but would you mind helping me haul my kayak back over to the boathouse? The Thoms are great neighbors, but I don't want to impose. That, and it sounds like I could be here for a while."

Once at the boathouse she pulls a waterproof bag from the kayak, and draws a key on a string out from beneath her wetsuit. "I hope you don't mind, but for the sake of time, would you mind helping me with my wetsuit?" Grace simultaneously opens the boathouse door. "If we didn't have so many strangers around I'd just change here on the lawn, but what with kids around and all…"

Once inside the door she lays out an outfit of soft clothing, and starts to peel off the wetsuit. When she gets to her left side she hesitates. "You're a Fleet officer, I understand. Right?"

"Yes. The Communications Officer." I wonder why she's asking, but as she peels the wetsuit off her arm, I understand.

"Oh, that's right. The men in this family certainly seem to be attracted to linguists." She says, giving me a measuring look before resuming the removal of her wetsuit. "I know Fleet trains you on this."

Her left arm to the shoulder is scarred and I recognize the particular burn marking: Romulan disruptor fire. I straighten, and as I do I suddenly realize her burned left hand is shy the two outside fingers. She puts the damaged hand on my shoulder to balance as she kicks and pulls the suit off the rest of the way and I try to keep my eyes averted but…yes; the burns continue down the left side of her body and leg. I would guess that whatever happened, she was lucky to survive.

She catches me staring. "I know you've just been through battle yourself…but have you heard of the Battle for Vulcanis?"

"We studied it at the Academy. Part of the Hundred Year War between Vulcan and Romulus. Called the Last Battle, but it was an open question if it's truly over yet."

She raises an eyebrow in a way that is surprisingly familiar. "We were involved, too."

Spock's grandfather was Fleet _Admiral_ Grayson, after all, so at first crack it doesn't seem too surprising. I wrack my brain trying to link him to the Vulcan colony Vulcanis, but draw a blank. "Do you mean _earth_ or your family?"

"Both."

"A covert mission."

She gives a grim smile. "You're quick. For now," she slips a soft black jersey over her head, "it explains the warrior marks you see before you," she pulls on black slacks, her eyes softening, "and those you don't see that Robert and Sarek and I do."

"Spock's grandmother." I'd _wondered._

"Yes. And Robert's son, my nephew. Have you met Robbie?" She casually winds a colorful scarf around her neck and steps into the pair of sandals she tosses down.

"Yes. He seems like a real nice…" Robbie's father; Robert's son; Spock's uncle. Killed in the Battle of Vulcanis?

"Sarek evacuated me to Vulcan. I was treated at the University hospital in Shi'Kahr. He saved my life."

My head is swimming with this new information and I don't know what to say. But I know I need to adjust the assumptions I'd made about this family's privilege and ease.

"I understand that my brother's big mushy heart has gotten him in over his head again. And I suppose there aren't that many other humans or Vulcans around at this point that speak Shi'Kahri." She hangs up the wetsuit and bag, and brushes her hair away from her face. "Shall we?"


	19. Ch 19 Finish the Job

Robert Grayson's House

Robert Grayson's pov

My grandson stands in the archway to the dining room, for a second the shock he feels showing on his face. His eyes go from the box of medical supplies, to Dr. McCoy, to Sarek sitting at the dining room table in resignation. The shirt I provided him this morning is unbuttoned and his side is exposed where McCoy is applying the heart monitor. It's no larger than a than a thin bandage, but it still involves exposure and touching; necessary, but surely unpleasant. As modest as Vulcan's are, I wouldn't be surprised if Spock has never seen his father so exposed before.

McCoy shows me the monitor's receiver and waves Spock to come closer. He swallows and comes to stand beside me.

"This machine here will automatically notify the emergency response personnel at Fleet HQ if there's a problem. Since you're a high value refuge, Sarek, Fleet would want you beamed directly to our hospital in San Francisco. They'll be better set up to help you, and Dr. M'Benga is there. Here's how you run the monitor and test it. " McCoy demonstrates the equipment's operation to both Spock and myself.

"I am of no higher value than any other Vulcan." Sarek interjects levelly, but his voice is tighter than normal, betraying that he is still in pain, despite the doctor's quick hypodermic.

"Higher than one." Spock says softly, and Sarek's eyes abruptly turn toward his son. "Status, if you will, doctor."

McCoy flicks an eyebrow upward, and only glances at Spock. "Just a little old fashioned angina, Spock. I've set him up with Dr. M'Benga to be sure everything will be all right."

Spock's mouth tightens. "Do not attempt to coddle me, Doctor, regardless of your patient's request. This is not a response to a minor injury."

McCoy looks back at Sarek and speaks gently. "Obviously out and out lying didn't work. Your turn."

Father and son hold eye contact for a long moment. "I did not wish to worry you. The Rigelian fever I contracted left me with a damaged heart valve. It was to be replaced next month."

"Would you not have informed me of this?" Spock says tightly, trying hard not to show the offense he feels at his father's presumption; and annoyance with himself for feeling both worried and offended.

"Spock." McCoy says quietly, a warning.

He doesn't need to say more, and Spock swallows. "I… how can I be of assistance?"

McCoy gives Spock an amazingly expressionless, almost Vulcan look. "Tell me how hard it will be to find enough T negative blood for surgery."

Spock is silent for a long moment, considering the doctor's words. "Of course I will donate all that is needed. Even if it requires that I extend my…furlough."

"I'll let Dr. M'Benga know." Dr. McCoy kneels beside Sarek, examining the monitor. "I'd like to check adhesion one more time, sir. Are you ready?" At Sarek's nod, McCoy presses around the edges of the device applied to his side, then closes the gaping shirt, leaving it for Sarek to button; leaving his patient with that small sense of control.

"Spock." Sarek did not look up as he buttoned his shirt. "I have an additional request for your assistance."

Spock puts his hands behind his back. "Yes, father."

"I think it would significantly assist my recovery if you would play some music for me. Perhaps on the ka'athyra?"

Spock turns on his heel abruptly and leaves the room.

"Well," says McCoy, staring after Spock, "I think I've finished the job."

I put a hand on the table and sink into a chair beside Sarek. _Finish the job._ Of course the doctor doesn't know. Sarek turns slightly toward me and without eye contact places a hand on my arm for a moment.

"Robert. Are you all right?" Sarek knows. He was there.

McCoy looks between us. "Ah, damn. What did I say?"

I remember Vulcanis, before the war began:

The Romulan struck me across the face again. "You try my patience, _hu-man._" She emphasized the word like it was an insult. "Try again."

I quoted my name, rank and serial number. In the background, Vulcanis floated serenely on the monitor.

"The Vulcan Ambassador is a traitor to the Federation. Romulus and Earth, together, have exposed more Vulcan treachery. Our people will become allies: Earth and Romulus. Agree with this, and your family lives. No one will know of your betrayal." She prodded me under my chin with a disrupter. "You could even become a very rich man."

My wife, held at disruptor point hisses, at the Commander. "Blood money. Your own literature, Vehkris…declares betrayal for money the worst of sins."

"Vulcan betrayed its warriors; they forced us to leave our home planet. We vowed to become strong enough to retake what was rightfully ours. They sacrificed our warrior heritage. A heritage I claim."

The Commander studied my face, then paced the floor toward my wife, finally coming back to stand before me. "I will tell you the truth. The Empire intends to destroy Vulcan. We may do a little profiteering here and there along the way, but the eventual destruction of Vulcan is the driving force behind our warrior ways. And we are succeeding. Have you ever wondered at the distance between Vulcan and Romulus?"

She closed the distance between us. "It hasn't always been so. For the last one hundred years and more the Empire has been eliminating the Vulcan colonies between our worlds." The commander makes a broad sweeping gesture as she speaks and smiles to herself. "We remove our ancient enemy and advance toward the home world." The moment passes and the Commanders expression hardens. "What you do not seem to understand _human_ is that Vulcan is _using_ Earth, as a shield. Earth is located on Vulcan's most exposed flank. Do you think Vulcan interest in Earth is magnanimous? Is it truly _logical_ for Vulcan to have so heavily invested in humans when they make it obvious they believe your people to be significantly inferior?"

She pressed her face within inches of mine and hissed in a whisper. "I suggest to you that blood money has already been spent. Vulcan has cultivated the development of Earth in its own self-interest. Your blood will fall first. Will you be loyal given that bit of truth?"

She waited, triumphant, for me to absorb the glory of her words.

"I am done with persuasion. Will you join the glory of the Empire?"

There was nothing to say but repeat my name, rank and serial number.

"Fool." She said, and raised the disrupter and eliminated my beloved wife. "Try again."

My wife, my soul: I will not think of her eyes, her terror, her courage, her love.

"No…" It was _not_ bravery: I was too shocked to respond any other way.

"Still not ready to yield?" The Commander asks quietly. "Fire on the Federation vessel. I will demonstrate that it is armed with Vulcan weaponry."

"Yes, Commander." Blue beams pulsed toward the smaller craft, and it rocked with the impact. I could watch as its shields sputtered and failed in electromagnetic flashes.

Commander Vehkris shook her head. "No recanting? You do have more family on the vessel don't you?"

"Commander, the ship is failing. It is not responding in any way but defensively. We are being hailed."

"On screen."

"This is Captain Robert Grayson of the USS Gandhi. All systems are failing. Repeat, all systems are failing. We request emergency evacuation. An unknown space activity has damaged our vessel. Caution in the area is advised." My son stared hard at the Commander, ensuring she knew he was refusing to fall into her trap.

"I challenge you to respond, Captain." The Romulan Commander spoke silkily.

The young Captain glared levelly at the Romulan. "This is an ambassadorial vessel on a United Federation of Planets' diplomatic mission of peace. Firing on you would be an act of war. _We will not draw first blood._"

"I will destroy you. _Fire on me._" She commanded. "Or die wishing you had."

"Not on my watch, Commander." The Captain cut transmission.

"Destroy him. Fire all weapons. He will fight or die."

_NO! My son, my sister- _But I say nothing. The secret meeting at Vulcanis was supposed to quietly initiate a peace accord. The wrong word or action now could precipitate the war the Romulans wanted, and millions if not billions of lives could be lost or despoiled.

The Gandhi, already taking evasive action, took the bombardment in a direct hit, and a final terrible explosion shattered the craft. On the screen, the Vulcan defense force was rapidly approaching from behind Vulcanis.

"The Admiral and Ambassador are useless to me now. Beam them to the surface. Let the Ambassador figure out how to explain their dishonorable survival and the disappearance of their ship. Prepare to go to warp."

"Vehkris, you coward, _finish the job._"

The Commander smiled tolerantly, and honored me with a nod of her head. "I shall report to my superiors that humans, while deluded…have the capacity to behave honorably."

A section of wall went from opaque to transparent, and Sarek stood behind it. The wall slid away and two guards shoved Sarek into the bridge, where he falls to his knees. "Robert, I regret—"

Before he could complete his sentence, the scream of a powerful Vulcan transporter beam seized us both.

I see McCoy glance at the heart monitor and frown.

"A little ancient history. It's nothing." I say quickly.

Sarek raises an eyebrow. "As the doctor is here to review your fitness for return to active duty, perhaps he should know 'finish the job' were your words to the Romulan Commander Vehkris who murdered your wife before us and destroyed the ship your son commanded."

I look away. Many years and many tears gone by…

McCoy gapes at us. "Jesus. I didn't know."

Sarek nods slightly. "Of course. Nor would you know that it was at my request-and on the eve of the war for Vulcanis-that the Grayson's became involved in a covert Vulcan diplomatic mission with the Romulans that failed. I had hoped to find a way to avoid the war." Sarek makes eye contact with me before he continues. "It is a blood debt that cannot be repaid."

McCoy would have no idea of what that means, but I can see he gets the gist of it in the way his eyes narrow.

Sarek's eyes look amused. "I did not marry his daughter in repayment."

"That blood debt would be mine."

"Indeed." Sarek replies, even more amused.

"Spock was eight years old at the time of the incident. Robbie five, if I recall correctly."

The humor in Sarek's eyes disappears. "You are correct."

T'Zel enters the room with a thick stack of folded dark fabric. She offers the clothing to Sarek, her head respectfully bowed. "I have completed cleaning and preparing your robes, Ambassador."

He touches the material lightly, appreciatively. "I will need them for the conference Friday, so I shall continue to impose on Robert in the interim. If you would place them upstairs, T'Zel?"

"Yes, sir."


	20. Ch 20 Selar

Grayson's House

Doctor McCoy's pov, Selar

Once I had Sarek patched up I'd unintentionally put my foot in it with the most ordinary of phrases. Grayson had waved it off as nothing, but Sarek filled me in, and I discovered that this wasn't the first time tragedy had visited this house. Clearly the Ambassador still believed he was responsible for Grayson's losses, but the human seemed more wearied by the old memory than pained. I could relate. Sometimes grief just wears out its welcome. The two had begun to quietly converse in what sounded like Vulcan Standard, so I figured it was time to leave them some privacy.

T'Zel, the clerk, brings Sarek's clothing by, and I seize the opportunity to ask her about the littlest girl. I follow her to the kitchen and get her attention before she bustles upstairs with the clothing. "T'Zel…got a minute?"

She turns, and waits expressionlessly for me to continue. "Yes, Doctor."

"About Selar…"

T'Zel peeks around the corner toward the living room and I follow her gaze. The little girl is next to Spock and he appears to be showing her the lyre. T'Zel places the clothing on the counter and motions for me to follow her outside. T'Zel quietly closes the door.

"What do you wish to know?"

"She doesn't seem to be talking at all."

"We are aware of this."

"Do you know what's going on there?"

The Vulcan woman clasps her hands tightly in front of herself: if she weren't Vulcan I might call it wringing her hands. "The children's teacher Selen chose to stop his heart in the Embassy's garden. Selar followed him and was a witness to his death." She looks aside. "Selen was a gentle soul with a young family on Vulcan. He would never have intentionally caused Selar harm."

"Oh, Christ. How long was she there?"

"The body was discovered in the morning. I decided then to evacuate these children from the Embassy."

The dark haired little thing reminds me of my daughter Joanna at that age; sweet face, big brown eyes like saucers. I blink back the tears that sting my eyes. I reach to pat the woman's hands but she looks so uncomfortable with the gesture I let my hand fall. "I could do a little evaluation of the girl and see who I can contact back at Fleet that treats child psychological trauma."

She nods her head and opens the door. "Acceptable. Thank you, Doctor."

When I enter the living room both Spock and the child look up. "So where are the rest of the children?"

"They were supposed to be upstairs meditating or resting. Selar evidently has a mind of her own." Spock states.

Or, being in shock is in a world of her own, I think.

"She is interested in my ka'athyra." He places it on his knee and tunes it. The child reaches out and touches the strings, making them thrum. "Later, I will give you a lesson."

She nods and points at the lyre then toward the dining room, both solemn and insistent.

"Yes, I will play for my father." He responds with equal solemnity.

I note that there is a big gliding rocker in the corner. "Would you like a story, little lady?" Forgetting myself, I'd spoken in English.

She looks up at me, puzzled, and Spock repeats my offer in Shi'Kahri. "May I remind you, Doctor, that telling stories to children is not a part of Vulcan culture."

"You mean to tell me no one ever read you stories, Spock?" I tease expecting nothing more than exasperation from him.

The girl tugs on my shirt and I look down. She nods at me, those saucer eyes looking straight into mine.

She goes to the couch and pulls a book from beneath a pillow and hands it to me. Had she hidden it there? It looks like it probably came off Grayson's bookshelf. I settle the little girl and her teddy beside me in the rocker and open the book: _James and the Giant Peach: in Full in Federation Standard._

Spock snaps the lyre case closed and heads for the dining room, but stops short of leaving the room. Without turning he says quietly, "My mother read to me every night."


	21. Ch 21 Interlude

Grayson's House, In the Dining Room

Spock's pov

Aunt Grace enters the house and it is suddenly filled with a new burst of energy. Despite being high summer, I am immediately reminded of winter holidays and the rush of relatives and activities. As always, Grace greets me with 'Spockie' and kisses me on the temple. This is the same gesture she makes to all the other nieces and nephews during holidays, her way of ensuring I am treated the same as the other Grayson's. I have pointed out the illogic of this to her before, as _I_ am not the same as the others, but she merely laughs at this.

If Grace is light, Uhura is warmth. She unobtrusively follows Grace—Grace gregarious, kissing and greeting all those around—while Uhura in her natural elegance simply comes to stand quietly by my shoulder. Uhura bends and speaks quietly into my ear asking if I am all right and I nod, taking pleasure in her soft breath against my ear. I have only played five folk tunes for my father. Sarek could not resist correcting my fingering on three. I anticipated this, however, and resolved to accept his guidance without offense.

"What about 'Far From You'…?" Uhura suggests. It is a popular song we have practiced, but it is quite emotional in theme.

"Oh, do you know that one? I've heard it. It's good." Grace enthuses. She does not understand that Uhura intends to sing.

I dare a glance at my father, and he is thoroughly unreadable, which typically means he has reservations. He already took offense to a different song and I am wary of doing so again.

Uhura hums a little, then softly sings the refrain:

_ Though I fly the far-flung reaches _

_ On the inner edge of time_

_ Through the stars that rise _

_ And the quasar's call_

_ I am never far from you._

I give Sarek an admittedly uncertain look and with hooded eyes he gives me a slight nod. I begin the accompaniment. I have modified the arrangement to showcase her singing and the ka'athyra and her voice intertwine quite acceptably. My grandfather's clapping breaks the surprised silence at the end of the song, then Grace joins in. This type of response has occurred previously; evidently our proficiency is unexpected.

"Hear, hear. Do you have any more? Miss Uhura you have a lovely voice." Grandfather approves, his eyes examining her warmly.

"Thank you. I admit I've done a little cabaret singing on occasion to help pay my tuition."

I raise an eyebrow at her. She had not mentioned this to me. I am not sure I approve of it. She raises an eyebrow back at me. I do not challenge her.

In the other room the doctor continues to read a Roald Dahl novel to Selar. The afternoon light is beginning to angle through the windows: beams enter the house creating geometric patterns of light and shadow as they intersect the simple but elegant furnishings. I am reminded of other times spent here, including time my mother spent reading the very same book to me. I am further reminded that as much as I identify with the planet of my birth, a part of me is as intimately intertwined with this place, these faces.

"Where's Robbie?" Grace asks.

"He was in the hall upstairs playing board games with the rest of the children last I saw." Uhura replies. "T'Zel was with them."

The wall Comm buzzes and my grandfather goes to answer it. I hear the name _Ernie_ and know he's talking to the neighbor. After a while he returns and speaks quietly with Sarek.

"They'd like to send an honor guard over, for you and Spock. Amanda, too. And for Vulcan."

My father's face draws slightly.

"I thought later would work. Dusk. When we use up the wood-fire permit and show the kids how to burn- I mean _toast-_marshmallows."

Sarek gives a slight nod, less approval than concession, and stands, one hand on his side over the monitor. He looks from me to Uhura then his gaze returns to me. "I require time for meditation."

As he exits the room he pauses beside Uhura, not turning toward her, and speaks in a tone meant only for her ears, "It is well you have come." He continues on his way.

My beloved looks at me, surprised, then a slight smile warms her eyes. She places a hand on my shoulder and the generosity of her love washes over me. _What do I need?_ Only you beside me: calm, present, accepting. She stands so close that I am engulfed in her scent: sweet, spicy, exotic.

Grace glances over her shoulder into the kitchen. "Well, T'Zel's back in the kitchen; and we're going to work out a schedule for the kids. And Robert, I think that social worker's there with the papers we need to sign." Grace hints broadly, gesturing with her head toward the kitchen and the two of them exit together, my grandfather's arm around my great-aunt's shoulders.

T'Zel must be cooking again. Savory and familiar scents are beginning to waft again from the kitchen.

I invite Uhura to seat herself at the table and I go to the living room to put the harp away.

In the living room, McCoy has ceased to read although he continues the slow motion of the rocker. Selar is asleep against him, the doctor's arm around her. Nestled. The teddy is functioning as a pillow. Her dark curls spill over his arm.

On a chair nearby Savar discreetly monitors the situation, reading his way through a small pile of books he has collected from the shelves.

"Spock." The doctor whispers for my attention as I carefully wipe down the precious instrument before storage.

I silently raise an eyebrow at him, not wanting to wake the child.

"Sorry."

I raise an eyebrow higher, questioning.

"For calling you a green blooded hobgoblin."

I look down and snap the ka'athyra into its case as quietly as I can.

"I'm sorry. It was insubordinate and bordering on xenophobic. I was venting and only meant it in jest, but—"

I keep my voice low and speak without looking up. "I have received enough discriminatory perjoratives from Vulcans in my life-" I am revealing too much and stop, regroup. "Given that, I find the epithets applied to me by humans somewhat ironic."

"I won't use it again. My apologies, sir." He speaks too softly for a human to hear, clearly aware of my more sensitive hearing.

I glance over my shoulder at him and his sincerity is believable. No doubt it is more difficult to stereotype me here in my grandfather's house with family present. I face him as I rise. "Apology accepted."

I return to the dining room. T'Zel is retreating silently from the dining room as I enter and two cups of tea have been placed on the table, the one nearest Uhura with a pair of berry tarts on the saucer. Uhura's eyes follow her as she leaves, her face thoughtful.

"They're intentionally giving us time together, aren't they."

"Yes." I take her closest hand into mine, not quite able to voice how much I've missed her. I layer her hand between mine, small and cool and strong, then turn it palm up in my left hand and slowly draw a spiral in her palm with the fingertips of my right hand. I have no wish to squander the few remaining hours we have together this day discussing either work or the state of the Federation. I study her face, Byron's poem running through my mind: _'…all that's best…meet in her aspect and her eyes…'_

For a long moment we are silent together, and it sustains me.

I must ask her this: "You didn't return my messages for three days. I…have been most concerned that my actions on the bridge…"

Her face as I fled the bridge had been a study in human shock: horrified, afraid for me…afraid _of_ me.

"No. That wasn't the reason." She studies my face, frowning, and it is most undesirable to be the cause of her unhappiness. "You said you were leaving the ship for New Vulcan. I thought you meant to leave me as well."

"I communicated no such intent."

"Your actions did."

"And actions speak louder than words?" This is a difference between how humans and Vulcan's think. I am aware of this difference in particular and should not have made this mistake.

She nods, tears filling her eyes, but she blinks them away and does not let them fall.

"I had no such intent, Nyota. I could not communicate to you that which I did not know: what would be required or where." I take both of her hands in mine. "I would not voluntarily add that loss to the rest." I add very gently, "Would it not be illogical to do so?"

She nods slightly, relieved, and her mouth soundlessly forms the words _thank you._

Her hands tighten around mine. "It's still pretty intense for you, isn't it."

Her statement is imprecise, yet I find I can only give a slight nod in response.

"The Healer is coming back, right?"

Again I nod, but this time lean my forehead to hers to sense the lightest of telepathic links and allow the strength and light of her spirit to buoy me.

"The boat house is empty." She whispers softly, her eyes wide and searching my face, again offering both release and connection. Her hand presses against my chest and she shifts so that her lips just graze mine.

"I will not use you for my own comfort. And I could not bear to expose you to this pain, this grief, if my control were to slip." Or worse, fail.

"Let me be your refuge," she whispers. "What can I do to help you? To give you even a moment of hope?"

_Hope_, she says. _Hope_, not comfort. The _Wreck of the Medusa _wafts through my mind. I am adrift, wrecked. Nyota knows me well. _Nyota, you are the beacon of hope on my horizon._ Would I turn away? Would I choose to drown? Would it not be illogical to do so? Would my _mother_ not tell me to chose life?

"It would be indiscreet." I whisper in response to her offer.

But I place my hand along side her face and she responds in kind. We mentally drift closer together into a place less than a mind meld, into a state that could be described as shared daydreaming. This is a softer place that does not challenge my emotional shields.

I open a panel near the front door to disable the boathouse security cameras and place my teacup on the shelf before the controls to indicate that I was the one who intentionally disabled them. This had been the protocol for Robbie's sake a few years back, before he'd married.

I turn back to Nyota letting need overwhelm all reason. "Quickly."

We nearly run, the slope quickening our speed. For a moment we collide together against the sun-heated whitewash of the boathouse, breathing quickly, eyes locked. Then I am fumbling for the key and again we are rushing, this time up the stairs. We face one another and I lift my hands, palm out with fingers slightly spread, waiting for my beloved to come to me.

And for a while, time becomes ours and ours alone.

The view and breezes from the small upstairs balcony prove stimulating in a way Rob had previously described and I had not genuinely appreciated.

We find later, at the base of the stairs, a laundry basket with towels, several containers of hot water and a few grooming supplies from my room. Tucked into a small basket on top are bottles of sparkling water and small containers of food.

"I see T'Zel is saving me from the walk of shame."

"There is no running water save the garden hose. You would find it quite brisk." She gives me a wicked look and I am sorely tempted to demonstrate just how cold before she can get to the hose first. Instead she changes direction and picks through the items in the basket.

"I can see why she's worked for your father for so long." Nyota opens a bottle of sparkling water as she sits on the steps then drinks deeply. "Can we trust her?"

"If you are asking if she will mention this to my father, of course she will. Will there be discussion past that? No. It is the way of my people."

I pull my hand from Nyota's face and she from mine, the daydream state fading quickly and the formal dining room reasserting itself around us. To calm myself I reach for and pick up the teacup and slowly sip from it. The tea is still warm. "You have a most detailed imagination, my Nyota."

She delicately eats one of the little tarts from her saucer. "Hmmm. Mm-hmm." She murmurs vaguely, picking up her teacup and giving me a most flirtatious look over its rim.

"I do not tolerate false promises." I say levelly, flirting in my own way.

"I know." And the corners of her lips tilt upwards, just a little.

A/N: TOS Spock associated Uhura with Byron's 'She Walks in Beauty Like the Night.' It's canon. _The Wreck of the Medusa_ is one of hubby's favorite paintings.


	22. Ch 22 Island Hike

Island Hike

Uhura's pov

I help line the children up in the hallway, each as elegant as a little raven in their charcoal Vulcan-style primary school cloak. T'Zel gives them an almost military inspection. Even though it is summer and a beautiful warm day for the area it is still cold for Vulcans. At any time a cold wind could blow or fog roll in. T'Zel, Karen Engvall and Grace had all insisted the children be dressed warmly for their hike.

This hike is part of a new plan to keep the children busy and focused. The children have not had an opportunity for days to get any real exercise; even to take any extended kind of walk. There is a short trail to a hilltop meadow behind the house, and it was decided that would be an appropriate start to their exercise program.

Robbie Grayson needs to return the social worker to the public transporter pad in Friday Harbor, so it was further decided Spock would lead the hike. McCoy declined to go, preferring to stay behind to monitor Sarek, study up on the Vulcan Ambassador's condition, and take care of Admiral Grayson's medical review for Fleet. Grace and Robert are staying behind with T'Zel to watch for the Healers' return.

Spock's Grandfather is talking quietly to him, giving Spock instructions about something. Spock's studying his feet and occasionally nodding, but before I can say anything Grace is in front of me, handing me a light, stuffed bag to carry.

"Try this out once you get to the top of the hill. You might have to come up with some educational excuse—studying weather patterns or some such—to get them involved." She studies my face. "Are you doing all right? I know you came to see Spock and here we are putting you into the middle of all this other business."

"It's OK. I'm glad to help with the kids, and…it's better not to have to think about..." I glance at the children, not wanting to say _Vulcan._ I peek into the bag and smile and Grace's warm brown eyes smile back into mine. It's stuffed with a variety of colorful small kites.

As we start to leave the house T'Zel hands me some metal bowls. "Before you go have them pick some blackberries and I'll make a pie."

Along the margins of the yard, wild blackberry vines thread through the salal hedges. Here and there a stout late growth berry cane surges up and over the lower vegetation in a muscular arc toward the light and lawn. I hand out the three bowls to Sel, Savar and T'Nola and point the children toward a sunny patch where the blackberries hang thickly, dark and fat. They should have enough fruit in just a few minutes for T'Zel's pie.

Spock trails them, monitoring, and I follow at his side. He inventories the plant life and points out various species to me, his fingertips sampling their various textures. Quietly he names them for me: _salmonberry, thimbleberry, vine maple, twinberry, salal, sword fern. Red cedar_, he picks up a small frond that has fallen to the lawn from a huge tree and crushes the green bit between his fingers to breathe in its scent. He holds his hand out for me to share the cedar's pleasantly resinous lemon and eucalyptus smell.

We both turn abruptly at the sound of a whimper. T'Pem has been snagged by a berry vine. Frightened, she flails and the claw-shaped thorns cling to her more and more aggressively. The whimpers threaten to become screams as her flailing causes more of the thorny vines and leaves to snag on her clothing.

"_Stop._ Be still." Spock commands, but the child is beyond listening. "It is your own actions which-"

"_It is attacking me!" _She waves her arm with the unfortunate result that the low hanging cane above her bends slightly lower and it's great thorns snag her hair. The child is undone and shrieks. "_Help me!"_

Suddenly little Selar dives into the vines, oblivious to the thorns, and wraps her arms around T'Pem. She clings there unmoving.

"Hold her still, Selar." Spock quickly begins to unravel the thorny leaves and vines from the little girls as McCoy rushes from the house.

"Everything alright out here?" The doctor seeing Selar and T'Pem tangled in the vines quickly assesses what has happened and helps Spock free the children, gingerly holding the bigger canes away from them.

Spock calmly and methodically removes the leaves from the shaking child. "It is inanimate. It only appears aggressive when you fight against its nature." He gently pushes a leaf _toward_ T'Pem and the re-curved thorns easily release their hold on her skin and clothing. "Work with the nature of the plant and it is easy to control. Pull, and the thorn's grip is strong; push toward the plant and it will release."

Only Spock, I think warmly, could make a philosophical lesson out of a blackberry vine attack.

In only a moment the girls are free of the vines, ironically the worst of the thorn scratches on Selar. Spock sees T'Pem to a chair and T'Nola-clutching a half-full bowl of berries-stays close to her friend's shoulder. Doctor McCoy dabs with his shirtsleeve at the scratches on Selar's face and arms.

Selar watches with wide eyes as McCoy kneels before her to lift and examine her arms then check her face and scalp. He smoothes her hair affectionately.

"Are you in pain, honey?" One particularly ugly scratch runs from her left eye across her ear. The scratch leaves a thin green seam, but does not bleed more.

Selar gives McCoy a quizzical look.

"She does not understand why you used 'honey' instead of her name. Our language does not use endearments, Doctor." Spock says, nearing and visually inspecting the child.

"Oh. Well, you're a sweet little thing, is all."

I translate the question into Shi'Kahri for the doctor's benefit, and the child shakes her head. T'Zel appears at Dr. McCoy's shoulder and hands him one of his medical devices which he promptly waves over the child's injuries.

"Well, that should make sure there's no infection and gets healing going. Thank you T'Zel."

To everyone's surprise, Selar moves close to McCoy and leans her head onto his chest. Automatically, he gives her a quick reassuring hug before standing. T'Zel and Spock share an expressionless look. The little girl follows the doctor to T'Pem and gestures at his medical device.

"Oh, you want to do it?"

At her serious nod, he adjusts the device and places it in her hand, showing her how to hold it as she passes it over T'Pem's scratches. "That's the way, honey. You've got a natural touch."

She glances up at him shyly, pleased, and McCoy gives her a warm smile.

T'Zel briskly collects the bowls from T'Nola and the boys, giving the Doctor a worried glance. "Doctor, I would suggest caution in encouraging further…attachment."

Startled, McCoy blinks at T'Zel and apologizes. He knows the child isn't human, but it is nearly beyond him to restrain his affection for her. "Ah, yes, ma'am. I can see the logic of what you're saying. It's just that she reminds me so much of my own little girl."

"Children." T'Zel calls to the little Vulcans in Standard, and they turn their attention to her. "As you have just been made aware, this alien habitat may present unexpected hazards to you. You will defer to the directions of Spock and Uhura, who will instruct you as to safe and appropriate behaviors when interacting with this ecosystem. I assure you its fascinations exceed its dangers. You will proceed with your scheduled exercise with appropriate caution."

A little downcast now, the children line up obediently as their schooling has trained them to do.

I can't help but sigh. Obviously, _fun_ is not part of Vulcan schooling. I glance at Spock and wonder how a half-human child could cope with such discipline.

T'Zel steps closely to T'Pem and with a gentle finger under the girl's chin she raises the child's face to look into her eyes. The child is still upset, but slowly regaining control of both her face and her trembling.

"Surak taught that we must let go of fear, T'Pem." T'Zel says to the child, with gentle reassurance. The child swallows and nods slowly, as T'Zel and McCoy return to the house with the blackberries.

Spock leads us forward, then, into the great forest of red cedars. We all grow hushed in respect for the ancient giant trees and our heads are all tilting upward in wonder. The light is softened and dimmed in the shade of the forest; the atmosphere further hushed by the thick carpet of moss and swaths of sword fern. We haven't gone far before Spock halts us all and invites us to circle a small creature slowly making its way across the trail.

I look from face to face, and the children's expressions are a mixture of fascination and repulsion at the green and black-spotted creature and its slimy wake.

"What is it?" Sel asks, on his haunches studying the small animal.

"A gastropod: Ariolimax columbiana, commonly known as a banana slug. It is a characteristic inhabitant of the North American coastal forest. "

The creature ignores us completely and continues majestically on its way, one of the greatest of its slug kind. Unlike human children, these Vulcan ones are not tempted to prod or disturb it.

"It has four antennae?" Savar asks curiously.

"More precisely, the animal has two optic and two sensory tentacles on its head."

"Is it some kind of insect?"

"It is part of the mollusk phylum, part of the great animal family that includes bivalves, snails and squid. In this ecosystem, it is considered a decomposer—a waste recycler."

"Is it dangerous?" T'Pem asks warily.

"No. You are more dangerous to it. I would suggest as we walk taking care where you place your footsteps in consideration of the additional small life forms we may encounter."

Sel sighs. "This planet is…too fecund."

We walk quietly on past the great gray bellies of the mature cedars, up the side of the island to the top of the slope where the vegetation thickens and the light is diffused in a green haze. We have to push our way through a thicket of alders to emerge on the top of the island in a broad uncultivated meadow. Spock pushes us on until we climb the meadow high enough to see the Sound again, spreading out in a jigsaw puzzle-work of water and land around us.

I take the risk of letting my fingertips drift across his. He pulls away but looks into my eyes, unguarded, and there is so much control there that it makes my heart ache for him.

"What do you think?" He says, uncharacteristically vague.

"The view is amazing." I smile.

"Hmm. Yes. Also I believe there is enough of a breeze to fly the kites Aunt Grace sent with us."

Oh. "Sure."

He runs the back of his fingertips along my jaw-line, an instant's gesture. "The local stonemason is at the family cemetery. Grandfather asked me to check on his progress."

My eyes follow his, and at the edge of the field by an abandoned looking apple orchard a utility hover is parked. I now understand the reason for the intense control.

I gather the children to pass out the kites and watch out of the corner of my eye as Spock hikes heavily, deliberately across the field toward the hover. It makes me wonder if I will ever see him again striding lightly with the beautiful cat-like grace I admired.

I shake out one of the little collapsible box kites and hook its line onto it. The afternoon sea breeze rushes across the meadow and it's easy to toss the little kite into the wind and coax it into a fairly steady position. The rainbow of streamers on its tail wave and play in the air. Quickly they all want a kite to experiment with. I tell them not to stray and head for Spock and the apple orchard.

The stonemason is easy to find. He's putting the finishing touches on the cement work that holds a new headstone in place, and he looks up with an easy smile and nods at me. "Afternoon, miss."

The stone is an unearthly color, I think, then realize it is unearthly indeed. "Is that Vulcan stone?" I ask quietly.

The mason leans back on his heels, considering his handiwork. "Yep. Gol granite. The best kind with the feldspar veins. The Ambassador had a bit of it stashed at our shop. Been there for decades, actually. My father was the one who carved the little girl's one oh ages ago." The mason gestured with a thumb over his shoulder toward another orange stone where Spock is using a stick to pick the lettering clean of moss and lichen growth.

The mason leans forward, trowel in hand, and gestures at other nearby stones. "Yeah, they lost three in a row back then. First the Admiral's wife and son, then hard on their heels, his little granddaughter lost in a freak accident at the lunar transfer station. Nearly lost the mother too, then, I understand." The mason took his trowel and touched up the concrete work that held the beautifully engraved Vulcan stone. It was a simple plaque, with Amanda Grayson's name and the dates that now framed her life, the Vulcan family name in Vulcan script, and another word in Vulcan calligraphy that I would have to get closer to translate. Satisfied with his work the mason leans back again and squints up at me. "'Course…it's terrible what happened last week. Hard to believe."

"Yeah." I nod.

Spock has moved beside me, the work worn stick still in his hand, and he speaks flatly. "I tried to save her and failed."

The mason frowns, looking up.

"Mother was no farther from me than you…" This controlled man I love so dearly kneels carefully beside the mason. Avoiding the wet concrete base, he traces the elegant Vulcan script carved into the stone with his fingertips.

Ah, damn. Less than five feet? Maybe as little as three? Obviously she had been only as far from him as the distance from one transporter pad to another. He had gotten as far as the Katric Arc, evacuated the High Council, returned to the surface…and lost her there before his eyes, at his fingertips. He had been so cruelly close to saving her. I'd heard his scream for her over the COM link as they'd transported.

"There are no technical flaws in the Vulcan script. The engraving is well done."

"It was a bit of a challenge, so I appreciate that." The mason stands. "If it meets with your approval I can have you accept the installation for the Admiral. He said you'd be here to approve it for him." He wipes his trowel on his thigh. "I'll be back in a minute."

"Spock. Talk to me."

"I am in… a negative feedback loop. I think of Vulcan and I see her. I think of her and I see Vulcan…"

I kneel next to him, leaning my chin on his shoulder. "I'm having trouble reading that word."

"Pre-reformation. Surakian calligraphy." He ran his fingers over the word another time. "A refined style my father has studied."

It's enough of a clue that now I can figure out the word: _Beloved._

I kiss his cheek and stand, and wander over to the little girl's headstone. Spock has carefully picked the moss and lichens out of the lettering. The dusty green chaff has been brushed off the stone and is speckling the rough dry grass surrounding it. His sister, I muse. The grandmother and uncle's monuments are nearby.

I sense him standing behind me. "Do you remember her still?"

"Of course."

"You were so young."

"I was nine. A year older than Savar when the accident occurred on Luna." He fell quiet for a long moment before speaking again. "I stayed behind for school. I chastised her for crying when she left. That so much emotion was illogical when she would be returning soon."

I look at Spock sharply, doubting he has ever shared this memory with anyone before. Heartbreaking as it is, I'm certain he's trying to distract himself from thinking about his mother.

"Uncle Robert had a deep and powerful laugh. Grandmother…had a disconcertingly bosomy embrace. And a proclivity for making exclamations in Yiddish. She read constantly." I lace my fingertips into his, and his fingers twitch slightly then tighten against mine. "Skene had Mother's brown hair and Grandpa's blue eyes." He murmurs. "And ears and eyebrows like mine. She was a very gentle child."

"You were protective of her." I say softly.

"Yes."

"Time moves on mercilessly." It is an Uhuru family aphorism. My eyes go to the young kite flyers and I count heads. Sel and Savar have tied their kites together cleverly in an attempt to get their kites to fly even higher.

"Indeed."

The stonemason returns with a padd and hands it to Spock. He pages through the order form and tilts it to show me the page where the Vulcan calligraphy is entered. "This is in my father's hand. It was not entered as a graphic." He signs the padd and hands it back to the mason.

I blink back tears. He'd needed to know his father had chosen the word _beloved_, had written it. And he'd needed to show me. "Would you care to investigate meteorological conditions, Spock?"

"You are suggesting I 'go fly a kite'?" He responds lightly.

I smile. "Not at all in the idiomatic sense, my love."

Side by side we return to the children.


	23. Ch 23 Sarek's Meditation

Admiral Grayson's House, Upstairs Guestroom

Sarek's pov

A/N: Warning: If you're in need of catharsis this should do it. Sarek thinks about his family, sometimes addressing them mentally as if speaking to them.

This guestroom is darkened against the afternoon light, and I am grateful for it. I walk to the room's thermostat and increase the temperature a few more degrees. Unfortunately, I cannot reduce the humidity more.

I should not have checked my messages from the Embassy before taking time for meditation. The suicides continue: four more today. The suicides are predominately our young and fertile adults; the healers are considering that Vulcan's destruction may somehow be triggering the symptoms of our reproductive cycles. And without their mates to satisfy those cycles, the avoidance of a gruesome death by the fires of plak tow may well seem like a logical alternative. I have watched Spock and even myself carefully for any indications that our cycles have been triggered. I do not wish to divulge this, a most private and humiliating concern, with McCoy the human doctor, but it is beginning to appear irresponsible not to do so.

The dissention over the logic of creating a new Vulcan is escalating.

The Embassy staff is quietly raising concerns regarding some of the alien vessels that were present when the battle for Vulcan ensued. Orbiting merchant vessels that escaped the destruction of Vulcan are claiming to have witnessed something of grave concern: that Federation personnel who survived the destruction of their ships in escape pods may have been abducted in the ensuing chaos. The ships of the Orion Embassy reportedly were aggressively beaming escape pods aboard before making their own escape from the gravitational well of the black hole that consumed my world.

I breathe slowly, controlling my pulse as best I can to avoid triggering the alert on the heart monitor. The adhesive itches, no doubt it was only tested for human tolerance. I need privacy, meditation.

I re-light the small firepot, and its spicy familiar scent calms me. This small brown pot Amanda carried here for my benefit twenty-four years ago. Amanda. I grieve for thee with every breath. I close the monitor and seat myself on the bed, hands on my knees. I grieve, and let the loss flow through me, expand, looking for the pain to dilute, dissipate, but no. My focus is poor. My thoughts drift back to the present: Spock; the Vulcan children, most of whom do not seem to realize they are orphaned; the future for all of us so unknown.

My son, Spock…

I never bonded with you, my son. When you were a child, I did not know if those human parts of your psychology, your human emotions, could withstand the bond; I always feared it would change you, that you would lose something essentially you if I did so. You never understood this, how I was trying to _protect _you. The Vulcan parental bond…is a powerful force, making conformity nearly irresistible. I tried to explain this to you, to explain my logic. And yet you still feel it as rejection, and further you think I do not understand this. More privately I had hoped your half-human inheritance and not bonding…would free you from the Vulcan burden of pon farr, the fires of plak tow. I could have given you no greater gift of freedom from fear and suffering.

It didn't work. Instead you suffer in both human and Vulcan ways, and in ways uniquely your own, and I do not know how to aid you.

I stop myself. What is, is. He is as we all are, flawed; but also a capable and good Vulcan, a capable and good man, in one complex package. By the grace of a medical capacity now lost, he is mine and he is yours, Amanda. I am more fortunate than most to have any family at all. But I am pulled to remember my losses.

Sybok, child of Seleya and the cold priestesses there. My son and yet not. He was to be the pure Vulcan child required to perpetuate the line Surak before I contaminated it with human genes; required as a condition of the permit that allowed my wife and I to access Vulcan reproductive technology.

So much hope. We had both meant to unite our worlds through our children. It had been so much more difficult in reality. The repeatedly lost pregnancies. Amanda's very human but illogical insistence on bearing the children that turned her into a science experiment and damaged her health. But, finally, there was Spock…and, oh, my wife, your joy. And the many years of Spock's youth that will always be the heart of my life, the best of my life. But Spock's schooling…was not easy for any of us. Despite the excuse of being repeatedly bullied, Spock, you _beat_ a child so badly he was hospitalized and required facial reconstruction. I was astonished to discover you capable of such rage.

And then there was the criminal conviction against the temple at Gol for putting Sybok—a _child—_through Kohlinar…expunging the emotions of a still developing mind. I stop myself and meditate to quiet the outrage that still threatens to rise, that threatens to set off the _damnable_ monitor. Those radical conservatives claimed they had purified Surak's one true descendent. Sybok was never mentally right after Kohlinar. He was removed from the priestesses and put in our care, but diagnosed as psychologically unstable. Amanda and I tried to integrate him into our family, but when we had discovered Sybok mind-touching Spock to experience emotions…we could not keep him and risk Spock's welfare. And Spock. Spock, still a child had admired what he thought was Sybok's perfect control and had been distraught when we sent Sybok away. No. Sybok was as brain damaged as if by the hideous human experimentation called lobotomies. He was permanently damaged, but his intellect remained. Sybok had thrived in his studies at the ancient university library in Shi Kahr; I had hoped it would continue to be a safe refuge for him.

Sybok, in a way lost forever, even before the Narada. Then two more miscarriages before Skene.

Skene. Robert has asked Spock to check on the progress of the plaque for my wife. The mason should be installing it this afternoon. It is a memorial stone only, in some ways illogical, but Robert suggested it was appropriate. But Skene…her little body is there beneath its Vulcan stone marker. I am concerned how seeing her grave will affect Spock.

Little Skene. With you we considered our family complete at last. There would be no more drama, no more trips to the Reproductive Technologies Center; no more sorrow at our failures. Her Grayson-blue eyes had been so startling; her coloring more like Amanda's. Spock had taken his role as big brother very seriously.

"I am no longer alone in the universe." He said to Skene when she finally came home with us.

She was…our delight. She was perfect and could do no wrong, and I choose to reject that thought which says such recollections are skewed and illogical.

Amanda's journey to Earth had been of no particular importance: she was presenting a paper at the University of Washington's linguistics conference, and wanted to visit her family. The Vulcan transport debarked at the station on Luna. A malfunctioning freight shuttle struck the concourse to their connecting fight. It was a small and random disaster. Many had died. Including Skene, nearly instantly. Amanda had been badly injured, but survived in critical condition.

I was awakened by staff and informed of the situation. Spock, one year past his kaswan and his commitment to Vulcan ways, had awakened to all the sudden noise and footsteps and stood silently in the hall, watching as staff and I ran through the household, making preparations.

"Father?" He attempted to gain my attention.

I finally stopped my preparations long enough to respond to his requests for information. "I leave within the hour. Your mother is on earth and she has been injured."

"I shall go with you."

"No. You will stay here."

"If she is injured, mother will wish to see me."

I considered his logic and control. "Quickly pack one suitcase. If needed, you can stay with your Grandfather or cousins."

Spock had nodded expressionlessly. I was intensely involved in preparations and paid no more attention to Spock until it was nearly time to depart. He was waiting in the front entry in his travelling cloak with two small suitcases.

"Spock. I told you one suitcase."

He looked up at me, his face expressionless but his eyes intensely vulnerable. "The second one is for Skene. If we will be there for a prolonged stay, I thought it would be logical to pack additional items for her." He held one of her dolls under his arm.

"Spock. Skene is dead."

Nothing changes in his face, but the doll drops from beneath his arm to the floor.

"Spock. Did you hear me?"

I realize a warm puddle is spreading around my son's feet. I do not react well, and call for a staff person to assist. I realize now the staff person was T'Zel, relatively new to my staff, who whisked him away and washed and redressed him in record time.

Again, in the hall, this time leaving, I addressed my son. "Which suitcase is yours?"

He makes the slightest gesture at the nearest one and my staff whisks it away to the waiting hovercar. My staff has always been efficient. There was no sign of the puddle of urine.

"Come."

His hands ball into fists, and his face is pale and controlled.

"_Come." _And he softly said the most baffling thing I have ever heard him say.

"I hate you." Then walked quietly into the dark, into the waiting transport.

He had stayed with his mother in the hospital where she laid unconscious, holding her hand. I had gone to identify and claim Skene's broken little body at the Seattle morgue; with Robert's help made arrangements for her burial; had found fine Vulcan stone and ordered the marker for her grave.

Amanda recovered, but our days were never the same, never again quite as light.

Spock recovered, but he never touched me again and his teen years had been terrible.

No. I will not meditate on these things. I shall mentally return to those perfect summer days at Robert's house when our families were still whole. With his wife laughing and feeding everyone and joking about being the queen of Jewish mothers. Amanda and her two brothers running around throwing a flying disc about the lawn. Grace and her big brood sitting together playing cards at a picnic table. Spock and Robbie gently helping Skene wade along the beach. Robert and I drinking K'chr tea discussing the condition of the Federation and believing the future held nothing but promise.


	24. Ch 24 Captain Kirk

Captain James T. Kirk

Federation Shipyard, Iowa

A/N: Minor rough language warning. Sailors, after all.

I don't know what possessed McCoy to beam to Iowa, bike and all. He hates getting beamed even more than he hates space shuttles. But he managed to find me in a bar watching news vids and rolling a tall glass of water between my palms. The doctor seated himself next to me with one word: _Spill._

I've never been able to out-run death. Hell, I was born with Death looking over my shoulder. And tonight, dusk's purple shadows were drawing g-strings in the crotches of the green rolling hills. God, how I need to run. I avoid McCoy's eyes; I stare out the one dirty window that faces Fleet's dry dock far out on the open plains.

Green undulations and Gaila's lively eyes sparkling up at me. She was a _romp, _a way to get to the Kobayashi Maru code…I'd thought. But the mind beneath the wash of pheromones had been sharp. I'll never have the chance now to find out what she meant when she'd cheerfully announced she loved me. Christ, and I'd said that was _interesting?_

One more ghost to taunt me, to make me wonder '_what if?' _

McCoy just gives me a look and throws me the keys to his lev-Harley, tells me to go.

For a while I lose myself in the noise and movement; the wind biting into my face as I head for the slight rise that overlooks the Federation dry docks; that overlooks the Enterprise undergoing her massive repairs. The sunset itself taunts me as golden shafts of light turn the underbelly of the mackerel sky into a riot of red curls, Gaila's red hair filling the sky over hips and shoulders and mounds of rolling green prairie. The evening star decides to add to the taunt, sparkling its way through the riot of color.

I ride McCoy's bike on into the prairie sunset, pulled to my_ one true thing_ and then I see Her.

I am lost: I'm madly in love. She glows in the cold and golden light and my eyes caress her curves, her formal beauty, her elegance. Everything about her reeks of money and power, too, and that's its own kind of aphrodisiac. She's wild yet sophisticated; and harnessed-she's never yet been driven to the extremes of her capacity and I want to be the one to push her to the edge and bring her back...

A thrown welding glove slaps into the side of my head.

The owner of the glove is gesturing obscenely and pointing up to the Enterprise. "Jimmy, getting a little too intense there, buddy. Or should I weld a little something special something into her just for you?"

I laugh.

"Hey, Jack Shit." I casually salute him, rubbing my ear. Jack _Shipper_, big as a ship and as coarse as a tugboat. But he's a guy's guy: the type of friend you can count on to show up and pay your bail, and a hell of a welder. One who'd make you think he'd built this ship himself with just his own two hands and his personal juiced-up welding torch. "You're out of jail again?"

"Sir, yes, sir. Shirts and skins aft under the port nacelle at dusk. Or are you a _lint-picker_ now?" _Upstairs, picking lint off my uniform, too important to get my hands dirty with the crew._

I give him a good-natured one-finger salute. "I'm there_. Kobayashi Maru_ this," I add pleasantly. A round of dirty, free for all basketball is just what I need. Good thing McCoy's in town, though. Someone's something will no doubt end up broken before the game is over. Hell, that's usually how I know when it's over.

I continue with my inspection, slipping back into a reverie while working through the pre-flight checklist. I feel like a goddamned bureaucrat carrying a clipboard, but even Spock with his photographic memory bows to that protocol. Checklists are an old and proven tool for reducing error.

My girl's like a dry docked eagle. It's painful, like looking at a bird with broken wings.

Suddenly Komack's next to me and I jerk, surprised. Sneaky bastard. "Admiral, sir."

He looks me up and down. "Status report, Captain."

"The Enterprise is at no more than sixty percent capacity, sir. She's been through hell and Engineering is still waiting on the next shipment of dilithium crystals from Coridan. And she wasn't made for towing at warp."

Komack stares me down, letting me know who the alpha male is, but I'm happy to meet that stare. "Walk with me, Kirk."

We stride along below the ship, and I'm actually impressed by how many of the non-coms he knows by name. Part of me still finds it heady to be treated as a peer by this man. He walks with both the weight and power of command. "So, Kirk. How many did she lose?"

"One hundred forty seven, sir."

Komack turns to me and raises his eyebrow in a good way, surprised, but doesn't relent. "And?"

I look away. "I'm…two-thirds through, sir."

I hate writing the letters of condolence and completely believe that they're a debt owed. Every death feels like a personal failure, and I'll be damned if I don't take each one with utmost seriousness. I know intimately how these losses will tear into families: some, like mine, destroyed; some moving on with strength and purpose. I've reviewed the history and accomplishments of each fallen crew before writing a personalized letter to the next of kin.

These letters are one more reason I wish I had Uhura here to help me. She's brilliant at navigating through the intercultural communication land mines of the diversity of races and species serving in the Fleet. We're all trained for it, but it's her area of expertise. Despite what she thinks of me on a personal level, I know she is a consummate professional and wouldn't hesitate to advise and proof read for me-especially with such a critical and sensitive task.

Still, in my heart of hearts I think of the Enterprise as Pike's ship, the crew handpicked by _him_, and what we accomplished is to his credit. Spock's Grandfather's words come back to me: _Pike knows how to put together one hell of a crew._ I haven't burdened Captain Pike too much with the task, but I have asked what he wants to be sure to say about the lost crew he was closest to, so I can write those condolences for his signature.

Damn it all. Captain Pike: he's tried to be a father to me. I don't know how to be a son. But now…I plan on doing a better job of trying.

"Coridan is the Federation's primary source of dilithium."

It's my turn to do the eyebrow lifting gesture. Komack's not one to beat around the bush. I know he'll be forthcoming.

"Vulcan was a critical link in maintaining the flow of dilithium to the Federation. Without them, Coridan becomes a prime target for acquisition."

"Without dilithium…"

"Yes. We're crippled. Now, there are other sources…but we can't afford to let Coridan fall into other hands, either."

_Andoria, Ferenghi, or…Orion; any merchant species with an eye for profit. _I think over who might be positioning themselves for the fight.

Komack nods, reading my thoughts in my face.

"So…where's my dilithium?"

A smile just twitches the Admiral's mouth. "The problem's not with Coridan. The problem's with the Orion syndicate and the shipping corridors. The merchant vessels are terrified of syndicate pirateers what with both the Klingon and Federation Fleets in shambles."

"I thought the Andorians were warning us against Klingon aggression."

Komack waves a hand. "Andorian bullshit. Plus they have spies all over the sector. It's pure deflection. Not even subtle deflection. The Klingon are as beat up as we are. The Narada tore a hole through their Fleet. They might even be willing to talk alliance for once. They may be brutish, but they're honorable and practical as well."

My head spins a little trying to imagine an alliance with the Klingon.

"The Federation has been years putting together a major peace delegation to approach Coridan, to gain their membership. Vulcan's Ambassador to Earth was the committee chair leading the effort."

"Membership in the Federation sounds more critical to us than to Coridan."

"Not if they're facing control by the Orion. The Coridan prize both their income and their independence-something the Federation both understands and supports. The Orion would enslave them. The Andorians would just as soon sterilize the planet as colonize it. Especially since they don't need Coridan technology to process the dilithium."

"So what's stopping them from petitioning for membership in the Federation?"

"Greed. They're a free market now. Membership comes with…participation. Taxation. Regulation."

"For that they'd risk war with the Orion? That's suicidal."

"Or as the Vulcan's would have said, illogical. The wealth of the few is served over the good of the many."

Illogical? Certainly. I think of Spock and the unspeakable destruction of his planet. The Vulcans were expert at persuading planets with valuable resources to consider the benefits of Federation membership. The Federation was going to have to grow up fast to survive in a universe without Vulcan credibility, and their patience and commitment to long term results. And, truthfully, most people had still been just a little scared of Vulcan and just how understated their power seemed.

Thinking of Spock, I wonder how things went for McCoy in Seattle. How could I have forgotten to ask? I thought McCoy would be back at Headquarters in San Francisco with Uhura by now.


	25. Ch 25 Selek

Selek

San Francisco

A/N: A timeline change that is a small gift for Old Spock/Selek.

(And thank you, dear readers, for your kind reviews. Have a Happy New Year!)

It is disconcerting to discover I retain the capacity to experience a kaleidoscope of strong emotions. I had felt so little for so long that I thought myself freed from most emotion-by atrophy at least, if not through the effectiveness of meditation and my old kohlinar disciplines. I could not have been in greater error.

In my lost time-line I had outlived family, friends, lovers, my professional peers. The irony of both dying before and living past them is not lost on me. Kaiidth. What is, is. Or as mother would have said more gently: on occasion I must limit myself to taking each day as it comes. This has been one of those occasions. It has been all I can bear to do in these terrible times.

While determining my next best course of action, I have lurked around the margins of the Vulcan Embassy, volunteering for activities I can accomplish without drawing attention to myself. I have been helping with the census of my people, a simple task that utilizes my particular skill set well. And self-servingly, it is also a position where I can monitor and control what is known about my identity.

Today, Sarek has transported to the Embassy from Seattle. I do not know why. It is also clear his staff is displeased by this turn of events.

Today…Sarek lingers near my workstation as he speaks with his staff and it is almost unbearable. Father. I have made a point of avoiding you, and yet here you are, clearly strained, but young and vital again: your resonant, authoritative voice piercing though me as painfully as a phaser blast. Alive.

It is, in this time and place, unremarkable for any Vulcan working in the Embassy to suddenly cease working and abruptly withdraw into meditation. My doing so draws no attention as I fight to control the rush of confusing emotions that wash through me.

In my time-line, Captain Picard had brought news of Sarek's death to me while I worked in the Romulan underground. I had thought of myself at the time as quite old and beyond most emotions. Yet, when Picard shared the mental link he'd formed with Sarek I had, surprisingly, wept to discover my father had indeed always loved me. So many of the choices I made believing my father did not-could not—love me, had in the end been tragic ones for us.

But this revelation, for me, had occurred long ago. Still, I could not help but study this alternate Sarek with new eyes.

I overhear a fragment of a conversation.

"…yes, in the breeding program. As a family pet, it was less complicated to make him available to the Zoo's program than a wild sehlat."

"Most fortuitous."

"Indeed. The pups born to I'Chaya are only a few weeks old."

"Perhaps they will serve as a symbol of hope for our future."

"Indeed."

I'Chaya? My father's sehlat and the beloved pet of my childhood? Could it be possible? I am instantly out of the building and hailing a taxi to the San Francisco Zoo.

My hands shake as I pass my new identity card and a few credits to the clerk processing entry tickets to the San Francisco Zoo. The young goateed human male glances at my hands then my face, yet his expression changes no more than a Vulcan's would. Is it so common now to see Vulcans shaking with emotion that it is unremarkable?

The young man taps something into his data port and gives me another quick glance as he pushes my credits back to me. I realize he's been coached not to stare. He adds in passable Vulcanir Standard, "Uh, follow the Orange signs to the Vulcan biodome. Make two lefts and a right on the path past the Japanese garden."

I do not stop to consider how undignified it is for a Vulcan elder to be seen running through the zoological garden.

In the biodome I ignore the dozens of dazed Vulcans sitting in undisturbed silence along the walkways. The high temperature and low humidity levels are somewhat Vulcan-like: perhaps like Shi'Kahr on a winter's day—but the gravitational field is unmodified and undermines any sense of authenticity. There is a newly partitioned section on the far side of the biodome and I run for it, slamming into the wall overlooking the habitat area.

A recording plays background desert sounds: the drilling sounds of juliili insects, the distant scream of a le matya, the metallic clicks of the footsteps of the silver spider-like animal my mother called crab-bots.

I cry out in my mind before I can make my voice work and a great furry hulk shivers below. _I'Chaya?_ By some good grace of this universe, could this one small thing possibly be different?

I realize a medic is posted in this area and is heading for me, a communicator already at her lips.

The great hulking animal rises on its haunches, sniffing the air and huffing.

"_I'Chaya!" _I hear someone scream over and over and gulp when I realize the raspy old voice is mine.

"Sir—"

"He is my pet." I blubber like a child and realize I must look like I've lost my mind. "My father's sehlat. My pet…"

"Sir…I'm sorry. Shall I call for a healer?"

I reach across the moat toward my old friend and the sehlat raises fully onto his haunches—nearly 3 meters in height—and roars, pawing toward me and sniffing.

The medic's eyes narrow and she speaks quietly into her com then takes me by the elbow and leads me out of the public areas and toward the service entrances. A white-coated keeper is rushing toward us.

"It's his feeding time, sir. Would you care to-"

"Yes, of course, yes. But the pups? He would be dangerous if they—"

"No, they are separated over here."

I take a few steps to look into a nursery area. Five tiny blue furred pups pull at the teats of their young, gray mother. She bares her six-inch fangs at me, and growls a growl too low in frequency for human ears to hear.

I hear a familiar roar and turn back. I'Chaya is rubbing his great bulk along the steel safety grating in greeting and impatience.

A couple of additional keepers have arrived and stare at me. One murmurs, "We've never seen this behavior in I'Chaya before."

The great animal has entered his part of the service area and runs his own six inch fangs along the steel posts making the posts ring, then drops his head to the ground submissively, his deep purr of happiness makes palpable vibrations I can feel in my feet. By the looks on their faces, the keepers feel it, too.

"I assure you…" I can feel the moisture streaking my face, and swallow to control my voice, "…that…it would be safe to allow me entrance into his pen."

The lead keeper is looking at me with empathy and cautiously approaches the gate. "It isn't public knowledge that this sehlat was a family pet."

"It seemed so…unlikely." Another adds, glancing at I'Chaya's bulk.

I pick up the food trough and bring it to I'Chaya as I had done for so many years, so long ago.

First he eats. Then he studies me. Then he sniffs me, seeming puzzled. I cannot smell the same as the boy he remembers, but his body language makes it clear I am recognized. His great blue tongue extends tentatively, and he tastes me with a great rasping lick alongside my head. He gives a rolling shake no differently than a happy dog would and falls onto his side, playful.

I launch myself into the great beast, throwing my arms around him like a drowning man seizing a life-ring.


	26. Ch 26 Amanda's Rose

The Mandy Rose

Admiral Greyson's garden

Spock leaned into the flower and closed his eyes. Rose. Wildly blooming canes of climbing rose ran along the garden's fence and over the garden's gate. The rich scent filled his nose and it burned there, luminous, threatening to make him sneeze or cry. This was his mother's famous rose after all, the parent plant of the vines she'd managed to coax into bloom in the courtyard of their home on Vulcan. He opened his eyes to the luxurious bloom that had seduced him into pressing his face to it. She'd loved this rose's subtle color: a creamy white shading to a rich yellow in the flower's throat, here and there an asymmetrical rosy blush. And a scent that was all summer: rich, apple-y, with a hint of vanilla and spice.

"Breathe it in, baby. What do you think?" His mother's warm eyes had smiled into his. She seemed a different person here; relaxed, and happy in a careless way he rarely saw on Vulcan.

He had loved to garden with his mother. He admitted the truth of this to himself. He had loved how they would work side by side pulling weeds or watering, and she would tell him stories of her own girlhood and laugh. Unlike Vulcan, in this garden his father couldn't interrupt to require Spock's prompt return to his studies. His mother had never capitulated to Sarek on this one thing: that she and Spock would have at least a few weeks of summer vacation on Earth every year.

Time itself had seemed to pass differently here.

Her hand had been warm on his cheek, and rough with dry garden soil that hadn't brushed away. It had smelled of lavender lotion and the forest loam of the garden's soil.

"I cannot describe this. I lack an adequate vocabulary to do so."

Amanda had tilted her head back and laughed, and chucked him gently under the chin when he gave her a perplexed look. "I laughed because you are in good company. Many a famous poet has felt the same way." She tapped his nose with her fingertip.

"I do not _feel_ any way about a scent. It would not be logical to. It simply _is."_

"I see, Mister Smarty Pants. Well, what about describing it by what it is similar to? The smell of apples, only richer? Or that it has an under-tone of pepper?"

He had smelled it again and frowned. "It would be inaccurate to say it is similar. I shall categorize it with precision for what it is: rose."

She had studied him, then, the slight crease of a frown deepening between her eyebrows. "Do you _like_ the scent of it?"

The moment had hung suspended in the air, held in parentheses of golden summer light refracting from his mother's hair and the electric trilling of a cicada's call. He had chosen Vulcan training over the ways of Earth and she had accepted his choice. At least, she had tried to. Amanda had loved Vulcan, Vulcan cultures, her own two Vulcans: but still, he was her son. He had not blamed her for wanting to share her heritage with him; it was only that…human ways and Vulcan ways had seemed so incompatible.

"Mother…" He had protested gently. "You know my choice."

They held one another's eyes for a long moment; finally his mother had glanced down, blinking tears away from her eyes.

"Well, I love the scent of this rose. I just…I just thought you might, too."

What had he been? Eleven standard years old then? And quite certain at the time of how adult he was, Spock mused. He had passed his Kas-wan with honor. His first critical round of exams the same. He had been strong through the long silences that engulfed their home after his sister had passed. Or at least had pretended so.

"I'm sorry Spock. I'm trying. I really am."

"I know, Mother. But I am an adult now."

She had bit her lips, but laughter lit her eyes, even as she had nodded solemnly and spoken in Shi Kahri Vulcanir. "_Yes. Forgive me._"

Laughter. Forgiveness. Love. These were inseparable from his memories of his mother. For Sarek, he had always needed to prove himself-to prove that he was worthy of calling himself Vulcan. But his mother… Spock pressed a fingertip into a thorn, pressed harder until the spike punctured the skin and a drop of green blood threaded onto the white of the rose below his hand. _Whatever path you choose, you shall always have a proud mother._

Spock jerked his hand away from the thorn, ashamed at the illogic of what he had done. He squeezed more blood out of the puncture, hoping it was enough to cleanse the injury, then examined his hand. He quickly suppressed the hollow alarm growing in his chest.

Suddenly self-conscious, Spock looked around warily. Had anyone seen? Nearby, his grandfather was working purposefully in the garden, completely absorbed in his work. Still half caught in his memories, a vision of Robert Greyson from twenty years prior overlaid the actual man calmly digging before him. Spock noted the signs of age: the muscular shoulders had thinned and stooped, the wavy hair that had been gray even in Spock's childhood had thinned.

_How quickly humans age_, he thought.

His grandfather was in the potato patch, kneeling in the sun-warmed dirt, the digging fork set to one side and a short row of the vegetables already forked loose. There was something peaceful in the way his grandfather calmly pulled his long, strong fingers through the hilled potatoes, searching for and selecting round red tubers.

"Oh, you're back." Greyson called, looking up at his grandson in the shadows under the rose arbor. He glanced along the garden fence-line until he located Uhura and the children safely back on the porch. Grace was shuttling them all back inside. The children looked properly wearied by their adventure.

"Good. You can help me carry these in." Greyson gestured at the tubers as he stood. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face with it.

Spock hesitated, a little too expressionless Greyson thought, under the arch of the climbing rose. "Did you try out the kites Grace sent along?"

Spock nodded. "It was a successful activity. The children were quite occupied with the activity for one hour and twenty-three minutes. At that point, I noted fog was moving in from the southwest and I decided returning was advisable before the temperature decreased to a discomforting level for them."

'_It started to get too cold for us', _he translated. Greyson looked away. "And the memorial marker?"

Spock took the data chip billing statement out of his pocket for his grandfather, and realized his finger was still seeping blood. When Robert looked back at Spock, his grandson was staring with alarm at the green smeared chip, green blood dripping from his fingertip.

"Thorn get you?" He asked, frowning at the rose arbor. Amanda had always defended the plant's nasty spikes. That without thorns a rose would no longer be a metaphor for life and love: it would be pretty, but never beautiful.

Spock hesitated then nodded.

"Well, I guess that's what this is for." Greyson took the chip, handkerchief still in hand, and gently wiped the blood off the chip before it was damaged, then handed the cloth to Spock.

Mandy's rose. It had been passed from mother to daughter for generations. Greyson sighed. She'd even managed to grow cuttings from it off-planet. She'd sent him pictures of the flower-covered canes sprawling over the stone wall of their courtyard garden in Shi Kahr. And a note saying only: _Told you I could bloom here, Dad._

Spock wiped at his hand. "The monument is set and the placement is as intended. The stone is…" He said levelly, his control slipping. He looked down, swallowed, afraid his face was again revealing the grief he felt. '_Beloved' _the stone read, the word engraved in his father's graceful calligraphy. Beloved, indeed. In this moment, with her rose surrounding him and its scent filling his lungs he could not make himself speak this word, could not explain the meaning of the complex Vulcan script carved into the stone. His breath caught once in the quiet afternoon air. He completed his report in a whisper, "…satisfactory."

"Just breathe for a minute." Greyson stepped back, glancing at the roses arching over them. "And let's get out from under this thing." For a moment he wanted nothing more than to rip the plant down and burn it, the exuberant flowers imploding into flame and nothingness like _she_ had.

Spock followed his grandfather into the garden and in silence the older man filled his arms with the freshly dug potatoes. He followed his grandfather's advice, using meditative breathing to center himself, to regain control. The children, he knew, would find the new potatoes surprisingly delicious.


	27. Ch 27 Post Hike

Robert Greyson's House

Post Hike, back at the house

Uhura's POV

Spock was right, the fog is rolling in. I hadn't quite believed him earlier. On the top of the hill with the wind blowing gently and the sun still bright, it seemed so unlikely that the mauve haze obscuring the horizon to the southwest could morph into anything substantive.

But now, standing over the sink with T'Zel and scrubbing potatoes, I can see out the kitchen window and across the sea. The light has shifted, losing its brilliance and growing silver and pink. I would call it moody; Spock would describe it as the increasing density of water molecules absorbing the longer wavelengths of light. The breeze that is pushing along the wisps of fog is strong enough to toss the branches of the shrubbery along the waterfront and to turn the blue-green of the Sound's water choppy and gray.

Sarek has left. Spock stands over the heart monitoring equipment left akimbo on the dining room table. His grandfather's on the wall Com, trying to get through to the Vulcan Embassy.

"T'Zel, this _is_ the secure line, isn't it? I've been on hold for twenty minutes."

She says nothing beside me, but I'd swear she tensed. She's lying, but why? She rolls the vegetables in her hands, scrubbing them confidently; potatoes common and familiar to her.

Spock appears in the doorway. "He has damaged the device." He is in his most Vulcan mode, so I know this has troubled him deeply.

"It must have been important." I console, speaking over my shoulder. I leave the sink, drying my hands on the sides of my pants. "Spock—"

"It was rash to do so. Uncharacteristic." He's worried for his father.

Robert hangs up the Com in exasperation. "T'Zel. Didn't he say anything?"

She does not look up. "Yes. That he would return as soon as possible."

Which of course says nothing. For a moment, Robert, Spock and I stare at one another helplessly.

Then the Com rings and Robert all but jumps for it. "Greyson."

By the look on his face it's clear it's not the Embassy. Robert's eyes go to Spock, and after what must be a long message all he says is a terse "Yes, thanks", before hanging up the Com.

This time even T'Zel turns toward Robert for news, as expectant as Spock and I.

"The Healers are on their way, Spock. They've picked up a launch in Friday Harbor. They came in on the public transporter. Evidently we're in trouble with the Port for transporter air space violations. They're sending warnings to both the Vulcan Embassy and Star Fleet. First McCoy, now Sarek, transporting without permits. Environmental violations." His temper flared. "Damn bureaucrats. As if Vulcan being destroyed wasn't emergency enough—" He cuts himself off abruptly, grimacing. "The_ kids_—"

T'Zel, her eyes wide, listens carefully. "No, they did not hear. I believe they are all upstairs with Grace."

Robert leans on a counter, suddenly deflated; Spock leaves the kitchen for the dining room.

Robert turns to me and nods his head after Spock and I go, following Spock into the dining room. He has seated himself at the table by the medical device, its various parts spread out. Not looking at me, he picks up the monitor and tilts it, peering into the device. "Your expertise with transmission hardware is unsurpassed." He says flatly. "Perhaps you could assist in repairing this?"

Need he ask? "Is there a laser solder in the house? And a jeweler's lens, perhaps? A diagnostic port?"

I lean forward across the table, making a point of showing a little cleavage to distract him as I stretch over the table to look into the device. "Oh, this is really simple. No problem."

"I shall find the requisite equipment." He responds levelly, standing and leaving-but his eyes don't miss the show on his way.

He is so stressed. I want to take him into my arms and I know that is the worst thing I could do for him just now. I settle for doing what I can, for fixing this heart monitor.

I can't help but look at the clock on the wall. Intel will start screaming if I'm not back by ten. I was hoping I could pull in a favor from that quirky engineer Montgomery Scott and beam back to HQ, but I'd hate to cause the Admiral any more trouble with the Port. They must really be pissed off if they wouldn't even let the healers through.

Of course Vulcans wouldn't lie to get emergency access. I can imagine the debate: Is this urgent? Provide the nuances of meaning in your language: what is the difference between critical or urgent or an emergency? And then the port officer asking if anyone will die in the next hour and the Healer saying no.

I've had practice with that type of conversation.

Someone slides into the chair next to me and I turn. It's Grace, and her dark eyes are liquid as she looks at me, her one good and one misshapen hand on her knees.

"Lieutenant Uhura…May I give you a hug?"

First I'm surprised, then suddenly I realize how exhausted I am. "Nyota." I surprise myself again, giving her my name. But there's something disarming about her wise, knowing eyes.

"Amanda would be so grateful for you, Nyota."

I look away and then back to her. "I love him so much."

"I know. I can see it." She holds her arms out to me and I lean into her embrace. "You're family here." She doesn't overdo it and releases me quickly. "Thank you so much for being there for him."

Suddenly I have to press my hands to my mouth to hold in an unexpected sob. I gasp and blink, getting a grip quickly. "Sorry."

"Don't be." She stands. "Know that we're here for you, too."

We hug again, this time I hug her back hard and let go just as Spock returns. He looks back and forth between us, as if he doesn't expect to ever be able to understand what has just happened between Grace and myself.

He gingerly hands a box of equipment to me. "I should wait for the Healers at the dock. I trust you will not be offended to pursue this work meanwhile?"

"Go." I wave him off. Still watching me, Grace nods thoughtfully.


	28. Ch 28 T'Qilah

Greyson's House

Waterfront

Spock's POV, in Shi'Khari Vulcanir

A/N: Concepts in one language do not always translate fully without a loss of nuance. A few words remain in Vulcanir for cultural emphasis. Translations follow.

As I cross the lawn, Healer Skaal quickly debarks and assists Healer T'Qilah onto the dock. Their conversation apparently continues as the fishing boat speeds away.

" 'I need a lift', Healer?" The young male queries. "Is this the appropriate way to request transportation?"

"A little colloquialism goes a long way, Skaal."

She halts before me. "I am Healer T'Qilah. You have met my apprentice."

"Yes. Live long and prosper, Healer T'Qilah, Skaal."

"Peace and long life." She responds and her assistant nods. Her gray eyes echo the blowing fog, elemental, in contrast to the ordinary formality of her words. She looks up the hillside at the property, the house and trees. "This has been your home on Earth, has it not?"

"Indeed."

"Follow me, Spock."

She walks slowly along the waterfront, thoughtful, purposeful, getting a sense for the energy of the location as much as getting a sense of me. There is nothing to be done but follow her. Skaal trails behind us. At length she stops and turns to me. "You suffer for the loss of our people. Our planet."

"Yes." I wonder if her use of the pronoun 'our' is inclusive or exclusive of _me_.

"Skaal indicated your shields were down; that you experienced our loss…intensely. Directly."

"Yes. I have meditated on Skaal's words. My failure to shield myself telepathically was unintentional, however-not unbridled curiosity."

She nods and turns away. "I have prepared for this conversation. I have touched the minds of your friends and I must concur." She is silent for a long moment. "I grieve with thee for the loss of thy mother."

I swallow. I expected this issue to arise, but that does not make it any easier to face.

"In shock at your mother's violent death," the healer intones, "you feared her suffering."

"Yes." I find I must close my eyes to maintain control. I open them again to find the healers waiting patiently for me to recover.

In the transporter room I had exited swiftly. I had acted as if I had pressing business to attend to, but in fact I had headed for sick bay; I feared I was falling apart along with the planet and I could not bear to falter so before my father and the elders.

I was in command and I had _failed_ to save Vulcan. I couldn't even save my mother.

Dr. McCoy had taken one look at me and shoved me into an alcove. "Don't move," was all he'd said, in the midst of a flood of injured refuges, in the midst of triage.

I look down.

Healer T'Qilah turns away from me, taking a few steps toward the edge where the lawn breaks steeply onto the cobbles below.

"Grief can be addressed." She turns back to me suddenly. "Child of the House of Surak, our Teacher of Peace, this is not why you are unable to sleep, nor eat, nor why you are ill night after night."

I look at her blankly. Where is this going?

"Soldier. You destroyed the Narada. How?"

"By firing upon it. By hurtling a ship into it."

"Before this. When you boarded it. Remember, I have touched Kirk's thoughts."

"I don't understand."

"How many did you kill?"

I stare at her, mortified. Child of the House of Surak, she called me. At home I had argued with Sarek that I was to be a science officer in a vessel charged by Star Fleet to peacefully explore; that the likelihood of perpetrating violence even second-hand was unlikely. Further, I am heir to the House of Surak; he who gave Vulcan our philosophy of logic and peace, my duty to uphold…

The attack within the Narada? I recall each deadly pulse from my phaser.

I whisper, "Sixteen. Three more likely were mortally injured. Regardless, all would have died in the destruction of the ship."

"By your hand, Spock." She steps closer to me, close enough for me to feel her warm breath on my face. "Tell me, did you lust for their deaths?"

I close my eyes, trembling. _A rage I cannot control… _"Healer, please…"

"No. I have not gone far enough. Do not look away from me." The wind rises and for a moment it whips the Healer's robes. "Tell me how you learned the layout of the Narada." Her gray eyes burn into mine.

The terrible nausea rises; my arms cross around my stomach.

"Spock. What did you do?" She demands.

_I did what was necessary, what logic dictated, what made it possible to defeat the Narada and save Captain Pike and Earth. And what I did was an abomination. _

"He is going to be ill, Healer." Skaal warned.

"Spock. I saw what you did in Kirk's thoughts. He did not understand the ramifications."

_No, no… this cannot be known. _I stagger to the shrubbery, but there is no release. I cannot expel this toxic knowledge that floats like venom in my brain; I cannot expel the memories I ripped from the dying Romulan Gethon. There was no time to be selective. I ripped his memories from his mind: yes, the layout of the ship, but also all the memories of a lifetime.

And I cursed his screaming katra as it drained from existence. Perhaps this most intimate act of theft could have been redeemed had I the mercy to carry his katra back to Romulus, but no. I recall perfectly the words I shoved at the Romulan's dwindling life force, in Federation standard for once: _die, you son of a bitch. _

_Mercy…_ I, heir of the House of Surak. Surak, the father of our path of logic and non-violence. Surak, whose precepts I have studied from infancy, whose precepts I honored and sought to emulate. Yet even Kirk had been surprised at my utter lack of mercy for the crew of the Narada, my indifference to the logic of it.

I do not see her approach, but T'Qilah stands close to my side, her voice a whisper hardly louder than the breeze. "Child of the House of Surak…_child."_

"I did not expect to survive." Yet I have, and my father's fears are realized. I am indeed a throwback to what was worst in Vulcan's past.

"Kae'at k'lasa…_Child_…"

She names the terrible crime I committed and I am undone. I sag, unable to prevent a bitter sound from escaping me, whether a groan or a cry I do not know. The two healers catch me by the arms and walk me to a bench by the unlit fire pit overlooking the beach. I clasp my knees tightly struggling for control while the healers stand motionless, expressionless beside me. I am suddenly so bitterly _cold—_the saturated air pierces me and I shake.

"Healer, his mind is in danger." Skaal frets softly.

T'Qilah holds up her hand, a gesture for Skaal not to take action.

Green edges of shock narrow my range of vision. Yes, I know my mind is capable of destroying itself. The Vulcan mind can heal…and it can also, when traumatized, truncate the offending neurons, no doubt an adaptation necessary for the survival of telepaths in Vulcan's violent past.

"Spock, your actions were defensive. Your actions succeeded in saving the lives of billions of humans—your mother's people." Healer Skaal murmurs.

"Tell me no _tr'y'jar_ was committed. That there is _thrap-fam'es nufau_." My tone is harsh. There is no point in hiding my wretchedness from the healers. "And were I to come to trial for committing a war crime, who now would stand Tribunal?"

"Sarek." Skaal breathes, and Healer T'Qilah gives him a harsh glance.

Can the end justify the means? No. That is the path that nearly led to Vulcan's destruction in the time of Surak. That is the path of greed, of genocide; of murder, not justice.

Our success in destroying the Narada had been far from certain. Perhaps even lower than the optimistic three point one seven percent I had quoted Kirk. But in my rage at my mother's death, at the loss of my planet, I had been willing to stop at _nothing_ to defeat the Narada.

"Spock, child of Sarek, grandchild of Skon. I can bring you healing, or at least bring you to that place where healing can begin. Absolution you must find for yourself."

Her tone is soft with a mother's tenderness-no, in imitation of _my_ mother's tenderness. T'Qilah raises her hand toward the psionic points on my face, waiting for my concession.

I submit myself to the Healer's touch.

A/N: Translations courtesy of the Vulcan Language Institute (VLI):

kae'at k'lasa-(a crime) _mind-rape_

try'y'jar-Euphemism "invasive procedure", metaphor for _crime_ [indeed!]

thrap-fam'es nufau, lit. "offering no offence", expressing that one is not offended, or choosing not to be offended for the sake of the other, often translated as _forgiveness_


	29. Ch 29 Uhura's Repairs

Uhura, Repair Woman

Uhura's POV

Robert Greyson's House, Dining Room

I lose all track of time as I work on repairing the heart monitor. Around me comforting quiet household noises continue: T'Zel clattering in the kitchen, the voices of the children upstairs quietly talking, grandfather Greyson rustling through a cupboard on the far end of the house. After a while, T'Zel goes upstairs and returns to toss a pile of warm clothes on the table near me.

"Does this interfere with your work, Miss Uhura?"

"Call me Nyota. And no." I blink and sit back to rub my eyes. I really need better equipment to do this, but I'll eventually make it work. "Those are for the kids' use?"

"Yes." T'Zel sorts through the pile of sweaters and scarves. "These were Amanda's. There was no reason for her to take these garments to Vulcan, and they were convenient for her visits here."

I give the pile a moment's consideration, and pull a silky red scarf to my face. There's a faint scent, a womanly smell almost hidden by an exotic oriental perfume. I breathe it in again. No, not oriental, but rich and dark like myrrh. It's a spicy, resinous scent that I've noticed before in the incense in Spock's quarters and at the Vulcan Embassy: kshush, a resin from a small shrub found deep in Vulcan's Forge.

Kshush: a rare spice even before…

"I wish I'd met her."

T'Zel's hands fall still and rest on the edge of the table. She looks away, her mouth pursed. "Of course...Nyota."

"I'm so sorry." I say softly. For this, for everything the Vulcan survivors have lost. I repeat the sentiment in Shi'Khari, "_I grieve with thee."_

After a long pause the Vulcan woman gives a slight, almost curt, nod. For a moment our eyes meet and she gives me that characteristic, unfathomable Vulcan stare: deep, unblinking, evaluating. "He has hardly begun to process his grief for her," she says softly in Standard.

"I'll be there for him."

She blinks at me, the Vulcan equivalent of surprise, then her mouth twitches. "For which I am grateful, however…it is the Ambassador of whom I speak."

My eyes fall to the heart monitor, then return to T'Zel.

She nods thoughtfully, studying the heart monitor. "Indeed. Care must be taken to monitor…that which has been broken."

I open my mouth, but before I can ask anything more Robert blusters into the room, triumphant, holding up two hands full of what look to me to be nothing more than long wires. "Ladies, I've found them."

"What are those?"

"Robert," T'Zel chastises him sharply, "take those to the sink. They are filthy. I will clean them up for you."

Robert grins, holding them out for my inspection. They are nothing more than long sturdy wires twisted, one end forked and the other stuck into a simple wooden handle. I look up at him, perplexed.

"These, my dear, are the official Greyson family marshmallow toasting forks."

"Ah. I see." But in truth I don't.

My communicator vibrates and I tap my shoulder quickly, to answer. "Uhura."

"Hey, kiddo. Doin' all right?" McCoy's voice sounds strained, false.

"I'm fine," I lie. "You're calling about the heart monitor?"

"Well," he sounds worried, "yeah. M'Benga contacted me. He think the signal's off, somehow."

"It is. Sarek's AWOL. He hot-wired the monitor to send a repeating pattern. He's gone back to the Embassy, according to T'Zel."

There's a garbled sound that I'm pretty sure is swearing and something about M'Benga having his hide, then, "Well, that's a pretty good trick for a layperson. Is the monitor damaged?"

"No, Leonard. I'm almost done fixing it. The transponder will be fine, we just need the patient back."

I think he's covering the receiver again while he swears, then adds: "Agreed. If he's still in the Embassy I'll find him. McCoy out."

I wonder just what the Doctor thinks he will do with Sarek if he finds the Ambassador. I'd like to be there to see it.

In the kitchen T'Zel continues to admonish Robert over sanitation standards. I return to repairing the heart monitor, the one helpful thing I can do just now…with only a few more solders and a little program modification, and I'll be ready to test its operation.


	30. Ch 30 T'Pring

T'Pring

New York City, Earth

A/N: Vulcanir spell checking via the on-line Vulcan Language Dictionary.

_Irony._

She had struggled with the concept, but now…she thought it possible she was beginning to grasp the alien idea. Yes, now that she found herself trapped on Earth.

Years before, Spock had used the pre-reformation Vulcan word for the concept of irony; and even in their own language it had been a distant and foreign idea. As they had grown to adulthood, he had used the word in their rare conversations more frequently and in Federation Standard.

T'Pring leaned her head against the glass of the window, and even in the climate controlled hotel room it was cool against her skin. Spock lived. News of the Enterprise was omnipresent in the holo-broadcasts. And while the newsvids naturally emphasized the humans' heroics, she did not miss Spock's presence among them.

"Are you unwell, k'diwa?" Stonn looked up from his input board.

She flicked her hand in negation, the other hand going to the slight swelling of her abdomen. She was trapped on Earth, bondmate of a half-human, and bearing an out-of-bond but much preferred fully Vulcan child. At least there was no longer any logic in concerning herself with the social stigma she and the child would have been subject to on Vulcan.

T'Pring had no interest in Earth, even for the honor of her work's inclusion in an exhibition of modern Vulcan paintings at the prestigious Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was Stonn, child of a merchant family, who had suggested the exhibit would benefit the value of her portfolio, and that humans valued exposure to the artists themselves. They had come for the opening gala, no more. She had reluctantly agreed to the brief, mercenary journey.

And now Vulcan was gone. This must be ironic.

No, she had long since received all she needed of human influence. She had been trapped with the presence of Spock's alien, too human mind for most of her life. T'Pring controlled the resentment that rose and let it evaporate. It was not alien to have preferences, though: to find that she preferred a mate like herself, a child like herself, her own kind. And it was part of the Vulcan people's most ancient tradition to call for the mating fight to the death, the Challenge, the _Kal-if-fee_. She had planned to free herself from the half-ling in this traditional way.

T'Pring's view from the hotel room took in the historic human city with its huge central park, and that part of the skyline rebuilt after the humans' brush with nuclear devastation. She knew humans found this view particularly beautiful. She found it…insipid, and returned to the fresh painting on her easel. The violent oranges and burnt umbers of Vulcan's Forge were described in the intense hand that had caught the eyes of collectors.

She could see that her Vulcan eidetic memory was going to be a highly useful survival tool. Already the demand for her Vulcan landscape paintings had caused them to skyrocket in value. In this at least, Stonn had shown intelligence.

Perhaps in choosing her for his son, Sarek had thought artisans mentally more flexible than average Vulcans; more loosely aligned with their values than the scientists of his own clan. He could not have been more wrong. If anything, her clan was highly prideful, orthodox in their preservation of Vulcan's aesthetic standards. It was logical for her clan to desire to link their House with Sarek's aristocratic one, but it came with human contamination.

She and Spock had been companionable enough as small children. They had interacted without incident in their school. She had no objections to him before their bonding, but she could not have known how truly alien he was before their minds had been linked. T'Pring realized her hand had tightened violently around a paintbrush, and her eyes went to Stonn's. He raised an eyebrow at her and she forced her body to relax. It was not logical to physically re-experience the revulsion she felt at Spock's alien intrusion into her being. At her bonding, she had not expected any reaction; her own reaction was as unexpected as his was expected. His presence in her mind made her _feel_…primitive, regressed, out of control…squeamish.

"Stonn…" He came to her and placed his practiced fingertips lightly on the psionic access points of her face. Stonn helped her strengthen her telepathic barriers so she could not sense Spock's shock and grief bleeding into her Vulcan calm. It was this strengthening of her barriers that gratified her most about Stonn's presence in her life. It gratified her even more than watching Stonn in their school years physically and emotionally test Spock. Yes, Stonn had tested Spock often, and had proven to her how weak and different, how inferior, Spock was. Spock was surely a beta male, not a Vulcan alpha male like Stonn. Her Stonn, she added possessively.

"You are better now, mother of my child."

"Yes…" She breathed, relieved, and then she let even the relief dissolve.

There was no logic in informing Stonn that she would have preferred to perish with Vulcan. Her hand went again to her rounding belly. Her choice once again was no longer hers alone. With Vulcan's destruction there would be intense pressure on surviving females to repopulate. T'Pring selected a new paintbrush, held it lightly, considering where to highlight her painting with the crimson of human blood. She delicately tipped her brush with the color.

For the first time she wondered whether Spock considered himself as trapped by their bonding as she did. Would that be…_ironic _if he did?

She touched her brush to the canvas, making the ruddy light of the star humans called 40 Eridani glint from the harsh stones of the Forge and the lost Place of Meeting where she would have found her freedom.

With Vulcan gone she could no longer free herself from Spock through the Challenge—where Stonn would surely have prevailed-but she could still free herself by refusing to serve her bondmate in his time, should it come. Spock would die. She would be free. It was the logical choice.


	31. Ch 31 McCoy Responds

Repairs

Federation Fleet Shipyard

Beneath the port nacelle

McCoy's POV

A/N: Mild warning: McCoy is a guy who speaks with a lot of…emphasis.

I finally get the splint wrapped enough where I can answer my bleeping communicator. "_Damn-it_ all." I curse, flipping it open, rubbing gooey adhesive off on my pants leg. Damned first aid kit. Some genius welded the box onto the south-facing side of a piling and the heat's almost ruined the bandaging inside.

The last of the rag-tag basketball players offer their regrets to Kirk and saunter off.

"I think disco went out of fashion something over two hundred years ago. Would you _mind_ turning those things off?" I scowl, squinting into the still flashing patrol car lights.

The local robo-cop, hovering over us with his gloved hands on his hips, glares back at me but does finally head back to his vehicle. I really should cut him some slack. He gave me the ride out here from the crappy little bar in town after all.

Kirk leans back on his elbows and grins at me. "Got a persistent caller tonight."

"Oh shut the hell up—" I mutter, fiddling with my com.

"I beg your pardon!_" _A very startled M'Benga's voice snaps back.

"Ah, sorry. That was for Kirk. The damn fool almost broke his ankle."

"You're at the shipyard?"

I run my hand through my hair, impatient. "Look, are you going to play twenty questions or get to the point?"

"The Ambassador's heart monitor is reporting…too consistently."

I give Jim the evil eye to keep him from getting up just yet. Too consistent? That sounds like the kind of trick Jim-bo here would pull, re-programming the monitor and sneaking off.

"I meant to ask you to verify its proper operation."

"I'll check in with Uhura. McCoy out." I key in her code and she picks up almost instantly.

"Uhura." She sounds strained, tired.

"Hey, kiddo. Doin' all right?"

"I'm fine. You're calling about the heart monitor?" It worries me how quickly she cuts to the chase.

"Well…yeah. M'Benga contacted me. He thinks the signal's off, somehow."

"It is. Sarek's AWOL. He hot-wired the monitor to send a repeating pattern. He's gone back to the Embassy according to T'Zel."

I'm _pissed, _and put my hand over my communicator to keep the kids there from hearing me swear. God damn it. I had to twist M'Benga's arm to get him to take on a patient he hasn't even met yet. This won't help things at all with Fleet medical. There's no sense taking the political problems out on Uhura, though. "Well, that's a pretty good trick for a layperson. Is the monitor damaged?"

"No, Leonard. I'm almost done fixing it. The transponder will be fine, we just need the patient back."

I cover the communicator again while I swear some more, then add: "Agreed. If he's still in the Embassy I'll find him. McCoy out."

I flip my Com closed. "We'd better go get Sarek."

Kirk's eyebrows are up higher than Spock's. "We? Surely you jest."

"Don't go getting all Shakespearean on me. You won't be doing more than Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation for the next day or so anyhow. I should probably be grateful you didn't wreck your ankle on my Harley. Speaking of?"

"Over there. Not a scratch on it. Promise." He gives me a hangdog face and holds up his own communicator. "Scotty's ready, if you are, to beam us to the Embassy."

Yeah, kid, you'd better feel bad for making me beam again. "I'm ready if you're ready to tell me what happened with Pike."

Kirk's face freezes. "The old man ratted me out?"

"Scared us enough to have Scotty beam me to this hell-hole."

"Look. I'm no Vulcan and I don't pretend to be." Kirk shifts uncomfortably, pulling his sweatshirt back over his head. "Hell, with all that's happened even our Vulcan's having a hard time being Vulcan. So what if I had a moment."

"You took more condolence letters down to Pike, didn't you." It's not a question.

Jim gives me a look that makes me grateful he was only drinking water back in that bar.

"Komack's here."

"Don't change the subject."

"They're moving up redeployment."

"I'm arranging surgery for Sarek with M'Benga and Pike calls saying you were shaking like a leaf. "

"There's trouble with the Coridan dilithium supply. Sarek's a key negotiator."

I give in. "Well he sure as hell won't be of much use to anyone dead." Kirk's psychotherapy will have to wait.


	32. Ch 32 Selek Plots

**Vulcan Embassy, Earth**

**Data Center, Selek's (Old Spock's) viewpoint**

Selek's hands suddenly stopped their rapid motion and hovered over the data entry keyboard.

_T'Pring: imperious, ambitious T'Pring_, he thought. She had submitted her census registration to the Vulcan Embassy in San Francisco from New York City.

The elderly Vulcan leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingertips before him, unable and perhaps unwilling to prevent the corners of his mouth from pulling upward.

"T'Pring lives." Selek murmured, causing the rather scruffy Vulcan next to him to turn and raise an eyebrow. The younger man's coarse calloused hands looked like he had been pulled from work as a common laborer and thrust into assisting with Selek's census data entry.

"Elder?"

"Someone I know, Korr."

Korr averted his eyes and spoke levelly. "I rejoice with you."

Selek's ready and very human snort of humor startled the younger man. "Yes, I do indeed rejoice. Fascinating."

Without another word, the younger Vulcan left the room, and Selek regretted creating discomfort in another Vulcan with troubles enough of his own, certainly. But…T'Pring. It was she, confirmed in her identity code and in her registration. And this was even more fascinating: Stonn as her common law partner had submitted an urgent request for prenatal services. 'Common law partner', indeed. And it was further fascinating that thoughts of T'Pring's disloyalty and Stonn's subterfuge could still annoy him.

What was his mother's saying? The more things change the more they stay the same? For the first time he sensed some logic in the phrase. T'Pring had carried Stonn's child in his time-line, and now in this one, too. Still, if T'Pring were pregnant, it was at least a handful of years prior to her first pregnancy.

He came to a sudden and uncomfortable thought: at least, the first one that he'd known of.

Regardless, in his time-line her children had been his revenge. They had been as gentle and sweet-natured as she was brittle and demanding. It was revenge of the best kind, slowly bringing them both at first a détente as T'Pring had mellowed into her parenthood, then at last a truce as they had been able to meet and finally, so to speak ,'bury the hatchet'-and for once, not metaphorically in one another. Peace? Perhaps not, but it had become something close to forgiveness on both their parts. Or so he liked to believe.

He had found addressing the problematic relationship a challenge too fascinating to resist. Ever an Ambassador's son, he'd reveled in finding _humans_ he believed would be exceptionally compatible with her and ensuring T'Pring's course would intersect with them. Eventually some became part of her life. After that, as he had expected, T'Pring had come to the realization that she did not dislike humans after all. She simply disliked _him,_ and had informed him so. It was a satisfactory outcome.

Had she discovered his manipulations, though, she would have detested him even more. And once more he wondered: with so much tension between them, what kind of fire might have lighted between them had they remained together? Perhaps his father's perception of their potential compatibility had not been entirely misplaced.

Korr, with a wary glance, placed a cup of tea before Selek and silently returned to his own work.

"Thank you."

Without looking up, Korr routinely responded, "One does not thank logic."

Selek was about to respond when, to his discomfort, he could hear Ambassador Sarek passing nearby.

The tall and grey female elder statesman must be T'Onn, and she was all but chastising Sarek. "It is illogical to continue in the way you are. You are not invincible."

"Without adequate supplies of dilithium, Elder, the Federation is at the mercy of its enemies both internal and external. I must-"

Selek closed his eyes. _My father, ever the warrior, _he thought. Where, the hand of peace? As human's might say, who will be first to extend the olive branch?

But he had extended the olive branch to the Romulans again and again; he had finally gained their trust and had failed them. And he had set in motion a sequence of events that had ended in the loss of billions of lives; the destruction of Romulus and Vulcan both.

No. He did not accept it.

He had been friends with James T. Kirk for too many decades to simply accept this unacceptable outcome.

He was becoming well versed in time travel. He could list by implementation measures fifteen ways to time travel and he had personally survived seven such journeys. He wryly added…that he was aware of. For now, he needed to bide his time; to prepare. He needed to be utterly cautious with his calculations. He was already certain he had identified where the tipping point had been: the calculations made by the Vulcan Science Academy had been too conservative—had left too narrow a margin of error. He knew now precisely what corrections to make. All it would take to heal this time-line was to return in time and make those corrections to the calculations, and he would gain two hundred forty-three additional standard minutes. That was all the additional time he needed to get the red matter to Romulus; before its sun went nova, before Nero completely lost his mind.

_And before I lose my own, through the despair grinding away in the back of my mind_, he thought_._ Selek quickly suppressed the sentiment.

He could sling shot back in time around the sun. He could find a stable time worm-hole. He could speak with the still undiscovered Guardian of Forever. He just needed not to be found out and declared insane or be caught while stealing a deep space capable ship. Or worse, for this time-line, simply die of old age.

The sudden sound of two familiar voices interrupted his train of thought: Jim and Bones, arguing-a beautiful sound to his old ears. Hope rose within Selek; where these two walked and fought, there was certainly hope.

"Even if I do get him back to Seattle, and then get M'Benga to perform the surgery, how the hell can I come up with enough T-Negative blood to keep us from killing Sarek right there on the table? It was the rarest Vulcan blood type even before…you know, what happened." McCoy caught himself, as he ranted to a limping Kirk. He was in the Vulcan Embassy, after all, and he didn't need to go around shouting about their planet's destruction. He might be crass but he wasn't cruel. The pair slowly worked their way along the Embassy hall toward Sarek. "It could kill Spock, too, if we were to—"

Selek stood, and cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon, gentlemen."

Kirk quickly recognized him, and he stared at Selek uncertainly.

"Doctor McCoy?" Selek interjected.

McCoy, exasperated at the interruption, stopped and turned toward Selek. "Do I know you?"

Selek moved from behind his desk, putting his hands behind his back. "I am uncertain how to answer your question. I can, however, assist you with transfusions of T-Negative blood should you so require. May I presume this would be to repair the Ambassador's heart valve?"

McCoy threw his hands up in the air, and spoke upward in supplication. "You're tormenting me intentionally, aren't you? Wasn't my marriage enough?"

Selek looked away to hide the wave of pleasure and nostalgia that bubbled beneath the surface of his face at McCoy and his characteristic diatribe. "Perhaps I may assist you in contacting the Ambassador, gentlemen. Unless, Doctor" oh, he could not restrain himself, "you would prefer to continue to seek a sentient response from the ceiling tiles?"

The doctor's jaw worked but nothing came out and his eyes went apoplectic. Kirk grabbed both the doctor's arm and Selek's and started limping forward down the hall toward Sarek.

"Don't." Kirk hissed under his breath to Selek.

Selek straightened and pulled away from Kirk's touch, giving the slightest nod. "Of course, Captain."


	33. Ch 33 Tea for T'Qilah

Admiral Greyson's home, Seattle

Healer T'Quila's viewpoint

The Lady Greyson's presence still saturates this place, vibrates here. The very walls still resonate with her energy; the music of her voice is barely contained by the very short passage of time. In human custom, holograms of the deceased woman remain attached to the walls or standing on shelves and she stares out, frozen in time: young, beautiful, fearless.

I am doing what I can for your son, my lady.

I shut the door behind myself and lean against it for a moment, letting the heat within the home pull the saturating dampness from my clothing. Food is being prepared. The scent of Vulcan spices intermingles with that of cooking terran food. It is distracting. Around the room, ordinary Vulcan objects are displayed among other household items. These Vulcan decorations are also both comforting and distracting. There are several articles of Shi'Kahri pottery—a vase, an offering tray, a blue bowl; a stone lamp of Llangon marble, a small black Golic metalic meditation sculpture of the kind made for tourists.

Skaal remains with Spock. There are six Vulcan children here that can be counseled while I wait for Spock to stabilize.

It is abnormally warm for a human household and I am grateful for the additional heat. A young human woman in an adjacent room startles and stands. Her intelligent and wary eyes do not leave mine as she calls out.

"Admiral Greyson? A guest has arrived."

I have erred to enter the home in the Vulcan way.

This human woman, her hands still holding tools, I recognize from Spock's thoughts: Nyota, her name meaning _star_, and he holds her protectively in his mind as such. I cross the room to her and she stands and introduces herself as Uhura. She is worried for Spock.

"Spock rests." I raise my hand toward Uhura and her eyes are full of questions.

"Healer." The cool voice calls to me in my own language. I turn toward the voice, toward what is evidently the kitchen, my hand falling.

"He needs her," the middle-aged Vulcan woman suddenly warns. She is a typical Shi'Khari matron: slightly tall and slightly heavy in the way of that agricultural region, given the area's traditional emphasis on fine food. An apron is tied around her waist and she wields a spatula in her hand. "Don't—"

I raise an eyebrow at her. "I am T'Quila. Live long and prosper." My hand raises once again, but this time in the traditional salute.

"T'Zel. I serve this household." The woman speaks without our Vulcan formalities, wary. "Spock's status?"

Before I can respond, a tall older man strides into the room, his hand rising in the formal Vulcan salute.

"Healer T'Quila? Live long and prosper. I'm Robert Greyson. We're most grateful for your willingness to travel here."

"Peace and long life, Admiral Greyson. My condolences on the loss of your daughter."

His eyes are shadowed for only a moment before he responds. "Thank you, Healer." He allows a moment of silence to fall, and we two women await his leadership as head of this household. He straightens. "Forgive my manners. _ I offer you a glass of water_." The latter he adds in an excellent Shi'Khari accent, and with perfect Shi'Khari manners, but he continues in Standard, "Or perhaps tea would make more sense, given the climate here."

"Tea." I bow my head slightly in acceptance, continuing in Federation Standard. "With sugar, if you please."

The Vulcan woman touches Admiral Greyson's arm lightly to indicate that he should allow her to prepare the tea. He sinks into a chair by the window, trying to discreetly see where Spock is and what is going on outside. T'Zel leaves the room, giving me a cool glance as she goes.

"Lieutenant Uhura, may I briefly touch your thoughts? I wish to obtain an accurate understanding of your relationship with Spock." I raise my voice slightly, to ensure the Vulcan woman in the adjacent room hears clearly, "I will in no way interfere with your mind."

The young woman purses her mouth and her eyes avert in discomfort as she considers my request. Finally her head tilts back slightly as she forces herself to find courage, and she nods slowly. "What do I do?"

"Relax." I say, because humans seem to expect this, and because it works. It is both alien and innocent how humans expose their suggestibility and then promptly succumb to it. Despite Star Fleet's required Intelligence training on resisting mind control strategies, Uhura responds and relaxes almost automatically. A Vulcan would find it difficult to so quickly achieve such a surrender of control. Perhaps to our credit as a people, Vulcans tend to respond with an instinctive protectiveness to this child-like trait in humans. I am no different in this way.

"I'm ready."

It would be an inefficient use of time to explain I only ask for her relaxation to be culturally sensitive; it is not a necessity. Only her permission is required. I raise my hand to the psi points of her face, my fingertips just grazing her cool, soft skin. The contact is brief, although it is experienced in quantum not lineal time.

I leave the humans, ignoring their surprise at what seems to them abrupt, to enter the kitchen where the Vulcan woman is stirring a small spoonful of sugar into a teacup.

"T'Zel. You know." For confidentiality, I speak in the Vulcan South Polar dialect, which the humans are unlikely to know.

She turns away from me and stirs some foodstuffs on the stove. "Yes."

"This is unfair to Uhura. He remains bonded—which means his bondmate must live. You must have sensed this."

"Of course." T'Zel aggressively stirs some sizzling item that smells quite good. "The question is, does Spock?"

"He does." The tension stretches between us and I am more certain than before that she is Vulcan Intel. "It is the last concern on his mind right now. He suffers for the loss of Vulcan. And for…military choices he made in the battle to save Earth."

T'Zel turns and gives me a hard, searching look.

"And of course for the loss of his mother."

She relaxes a little. "You intend to include Uhura in his treatment?" T'Zel glances toward the other room.

Uhura has returned to the medical equipment spread on the table and is explaining to the Admiral how she has repaired damage to the heart monitor-damage evidently perpetrated by the Ambassador himself.

"Yes. I will be including her." Spock desires so. It will be difficult work. His mind remains compartmentalized by his traumatic memories. As part of his recovery process, he wishes to share his memories of Vulcan's destruction with Uhura, and yet he also wishes to protect her from the emotions they engender. I cradle the tea in my hands. "She loves him. But she is also uncertain of his commitment to her." I raise an eyebrow at T'Zel as I sip the tea, reminding her that I have not neglected to include in my calculations that Spock remains bonded to the one named T'Pring.

The tea is satisfying. I have well earned the mildly intoxicating effect of this added bit of sugar, I think as I sip the tea. More importantly, it has a warming effect. "He loves her as well," I add.

"Then he is as headstrong in this way as his father." I sense T'Zel's deep strength of will when she levels her gaze on me once again. "Love may be an emotion, but it is not always illogical."

I take a slow sip of tea, not dropping my eyes, testing. "Passion is difficult to control. It is a human vulnerability."

"A _human_ vulnerability?" T'Zel's eyes flash as she pours fresh tea into my waiting cup. "His bond mate T'Pring was rumored to be carrying the child of another."

"Most…complicated." A rumor repeated by Vulcan Intelligence is tantamount to fact. "I retract my flawed statement. Nonetheless, emotions which are difficult to control remain a risk to Vulcans and humans alike."

T'Zel adds hot water to my tea and returns the kettle to the ancient cook stove, adjusting its controls. "Spock's mother would have told him love is a gift to be treasured." She goes to the window over the sink and peers out the window into the deepening shadows of the garden, searching for him.

"A gift…" I repeat, considering. I have spent many years living on earth, but certainly not in such intimacy with humans as T'Zel. "A gift akin to keeping a pet Le Matya: beautiful and unpredictable, with life and death consequences." I place the teacup on the counter. "Perhaps like…the decision to rescue six little Le Matya?" I gently add.

T'Zel's busy hands suddenly fall to her sides. "Touche'," she says softly in French. "Forgive me Healer. In this my logic is flawed."

"They are…Shi'Khari, as are you, as are Spock and Sarek."

"They are." 

"If not a logical choice, it is an understandable one." I stand in silence for a moment. I am nearly warm. "It is time they know Vulcan is gone. In this remote location I presume you have been able to avoid confirming this with them. Or, perhaps, not with all of them?"

T'Zel's eyes close as she gives a slight nod. "They are so young."

"No parents or relatives have been located, then."

"Correct. They are exceptional children from young working class families, the ordinary people of Shi'Kahr. Their parents would not have had access to extraordinary means of evacuation from the planet." T'Zel's shoulders tighten. "I suppose it is too much to ask, to allow the children the bliss of uncertainty."

"T'Zel." She turns to me, her eyes still guarded, and I gently add, "I concur with the Hippocratic directive to 'first, do no harm.' "

I watch her turn back to gouge at the sizzling vegetables. They are _potatoes_ perhaps? T'Zel puts a steady hand to her face for a moment, then returns to her servant persona. She turns the heat down and covers the food. I control my hunger. I cannot request to share that which has not been offered.

"They are upstairs with the Admiral's sister, Grace. I will show you the way."

As we walk past the dining room, Uhura does not look up and her focus remains on the heart monitor, which she continues to adjust. _"If there is anything I can do to be of additional assistance, please let me know." _

Her South Polar Vulcan dialect is flawless.


	34. Ch 34 At the Embassy

Vulcan Embassy, San Francisco

A/N: Warning, some adult themes are discussed. And Kirk's a young man; his language is a little rough around the edges.

Kirk's POV

As I rematerialize I think: _It's beautiful._

That's what I always notice first about the Vulcan Embassy. And what motivates the reiteration of these patterns of ancient and complex beauty in a people that value logic and the control of emotion? It's not the clean, mathematical beauty of Earth's middle-eastern architecture—which you'd almost expect. No, it's irrational and baroque, the decorative symbolism indecipherable. It's almost as if the dark, brooding stone buildings of the compound express some intensity that has no other outlet. And for some crazy reason I find it soothing.

But it's probably small comfort for the Vulcan survivors. Engineer Scott's beamed us into the atrium of this building, but it's open to the San Francisco weather. The natural mosses and molds of this climate have crept into the folds and complexities of the decorative surfaces, visually deepening them and making them seem only more alien. It seems odd to find a security guard in this peaceful sculpture garden, but one immediately approaches.

"State your business." He speaks in clipped Federation Standard. This big guy is one humorless Vulcan, who looks like he just might be inclined to forego their philosophy of non-violence.

McCoy flashes Star Fleet medical credentials and the guard wordlessly steps aside. I remember then that McCoy's already been working in the Embassy with the refugees. Christ, is this the suicide garden he told me about? I'm suddenly happy to dive inside the building.

I've never been here before when it was Vulcan hot inside; they must have adjusted the temperature to accommodate humans previously. Not now, and it's understandable. The dim hallways, rich with draperies and paintings, are still peppered with Vulcan refuges. Most sit on the floor, their legs folded beneath them, watchful and silent. I'd guess these people are still waiting to be processed and assigned to other housing in the bay area.

I've been a refugee. I know what they're going through and it makes me feel more than a little physically ill in empathy. Ironically enough, I returned to Earth from Tarsus in a Vulcan transport, and got processed back onto the planet through this very Embassy. Not this exact hall, but it sure feels the same.

Hell, I suppose it took a Vulcan to catch me. I was one cunning and fast little shit or I wouldn't have survived Kodos' population reductions. And that makes me wonder if my Vulcan rescuer's dead or alive now. I'd always thought there'd be plenty of time to work through my issues with that Tarsus nightmare first; that'd I'd eventually feel like thanking the pointy eared peace-keeper who'd finally pinned me to a wall and neck pinched me.

I limp after McCoy as he leads down the hallway, and I bark at him to goddamn it slow down. Jesus, my ankle hurts. Didn't he just tell me to keep off it? Then he drags me along on this wild goose chase.

He seems to know where he's going. Off either side of this hallway there are open rooms full of Vulcans intensely doing god-knows-what at banks of data ports. You almost wouldn't know anything had happened; that it had all changed forever.

That it had all ended as abruptly and permanently for these Vulcans as Tarsus had for me.

A little further along, as McCoy rattles on about his surgical worries, a Vulcan turns toward us and he catches my eye. He's not exactly smiling, but it's _weird_ to see a Vulcan face looking obviously pleased. Oh, _him._ I can't quite bring myself to think of him as Spock, so I default to the name he coined: Selek. He comes over to us and offers to help provide the blood type needed for Sarek's surgery. How can he do that if Spock-? Or…have I been _had_ by Selek? World ending paradigms my ass: what kind of game is he playing?

And he _baits_ Bones, baits him as badly as I might. Jesus. Has him sputtering all over himself and I realize I'd better get them both focused on the task at hand before war breaks out.

I take one limping step and Selek slips a hand under my armpit instantly, acting as a Vulcan crutch, taking my weight off my bad ankle. And he does so off-handedly, like it was nothing new.

Selek gets a little weird again as we near Ambassador Sarek, pulling the hood of his robe over his head and keeping his face averted. They speak a bit in Vulcanir. I'm not that good with the language and I don't want to be obvious clicking on my implanted universal translator, so I just wait it out. Sarek turns to glare at the two of us and I don't think I've felt like such an insect since the last time Frank had a go at me. Wow. No wonder Spock's such a hard-ass.

"We're here to take you back to Seattle, Ambassador." McCoy jumps right in where angels would fear to tread.

The old Vulcan lady in formal looking robes next to Sarek raises an eyebrow and speaks in Standard, obviously for our benefit. "This appears to be your opportunity to capitulate, Sarek."

"Do you appreciate what kind of trouble I've been going through to schedule surgery for you?" Bones spits out tactlessly.

Sarek looks from the woman to McCoy. "Gentlemen." He nods, speaking levelly to us both in greeting.

"And the monitor, damn it, sir—"

I can see Selek's hand tighten on the doctor's elbow in warning.

Sarek speaks to the old Vulcan woman, "I have business with both gentlemen. The hallway, however, is not the appropriate venue." Sarek turns and sweeps away, forcing the three of us to follow the Ambassador to a nearby office.

Selek indicates he'll wait outside, while McCoy and I enter. Once we're inside Sarek secures the room and I'm starting to feel a little like a trapped rat.

"Doctor. Before I respond to your direction, I regretfully must divulge to you a certain difficulty among my people related to our reproductive cycles." He actually sighs softly as he holds out a data disc to McCoy. "I am divulging…extremely confidential information; information we have withheld from outsiders because of its sensitive nature."

"Then why, may I ask, are you sharing this now?"

"There is more going on with the suicides than grief. Something is triggering our reproductive cycles. It may be the loss of the planet, the shock, even something else entirely."

McCoy shakes his head, baffled at Sarek's intensity and secrecy. "Sexual activity is natural for both of our species. I'd expect it might even be a good outlet for your people these days."

"If humans fail to mate with their partners, they do not die."

"Oh surely you're shitting me." I can't criticize Bones for blurting this, because the exact same words flew into my mind. But I at least have the discretion not to say them to the Ambassador's face.

"The symptoms prior to death…can be horrendous. By analogy, it has been described as being burned alive. It can lead to insanity, violent behavior. You can see where, in the absence of one's partner, suicide might seem like the logical alternative. It…is perhaps my people's greatest fear: death by the fires of _plak tow_."

McCoy is suddenly all professional. "Obviously if it could be treated, you'd already be doing it. You're asking for help."

"Yes. We cannot afford these losses."

McCoy closes his eyes and I feel awful for him. He's been griping about all the 'bagging and tagging' of the suicides he's been called to help with; angry about the wasteful loss of life without knowing what was actually going on.

And these unfortunate refugees now have this to be terrified about on top of what has already happened.

"I cannot emphasize enough…how private this matter is to us." I note that Sarek puts his hands behind his back in the same way as Selek and Spock: the arms swing back to a methodical grasp of the hands, then the nose tilts up just a bit.

The alternative seems logical enough to me. "I'm sure there would be volunteers—"

"_Jim-!" _McCoy glares. "What part of _private_ do you not understand?"

Sarek skewers me with that look again and it's all I can do not to squirm. I was just suggesting a win-win alternative. Sex or death? Easy answer.

"We…connect telepathically with our partners. Because of this, and as I am sure you are already aware, Vulcans are inclined to monogamy."

My eyes narrow. "Are you telling us that there are Vulcans who would rather die than connect telepathically to a human?" I realize too late I'm saying this to a Vulcan who _married_ a human.

"No. I am telling you that some grieving Vulcans are unwilling to bear the risk of being telepathically bonded to a stranger in order to save themselves."

"Sorry." I apologize lamely.

"Your request for clarification was logical. No offense is taken."

"Sarek," McCoy asks, "have you, or Spock…experienced any symptoms?"

"No. The disc will provide you with the more subtle medical indications that should be monitored. My son has been somewhat isolated in Seattle, however, and may not be aware of the problem; moreover the human elements of his physiology complicate matters. But I understand that you are his assigned Star Fleet physician."

"Uhura?" McCoy asks quietly.

Sarek was on the Enterprise; and he's been in Seattle with both Spock and Uhura there. Surely he knows.

"I do not wish to intrude on my son's…choices. But I suspect he is not at immediate risk."

Silence drags out for a long moment.

"I trust, Doctor, you will provide this information discretely to the appropriate research personnel. Given this, I shall return to Seattle as you wish. But before I accompany you, Captain Kirk, a moment in private if you will."

"Have fun." McCoy says, triggering the door to open. "I'll wait out here with the old guy with the mouth."

Well. I wait for Sarek to speak, but he takes a long moment to study me. Damn. I think of Spock again and wonder what it would have been like to grow up under those laser beams. I just might have to ask.

"Admiral Komack indicated he has spoken with you about Coridan." Sarek begins.

"He has."

"You understand the Orion appear to be taking an aggressive stance."

"The Orion Syndicate has the merchant marine around Coridan terrified. They're already slowing down delivery of Federation dilithium supplies."

"More than that, Captain. Several sources report seeing the Orion Embassy's vessel beaming aboard escape pods from the destroyed Fleet ships before fleeing Vulcan's gravity well."

I go cold, very cold, and suddenly I'm as focused as any predator. "Tell me more."

"We have operatives working on the question. There have been estimates of ten pods being taken, possibly more. But for the Orion ship, too, time to escape the planet's gravity well was short."

"They were taken for leverage." I say through gritted teeth, and Sarek nods.

"The modus operandi of terrorists. Kidnapping. Extortion. And Coridan is using the supply shortage to pad their profits. They are playing a dangerous game."

I thought Komack was wrong to move up redeployment. Now…it can't come soon enough.


	35. Ch 35 Uhura Clarity

Greyson's House, Seattle

Uhura's POV (Revised)

I close my eyes. I could not help but eavesdrop. In the kitchen, I could hear T'Zel's Shi'Khari lilt and T'Qilah's flatter Golic vowels accenting the South Polar Vulcan dialect their conversation abruptly shifted into, making it clear they were choosing the language for confidentiality.

_He remains bonded. His bondmate therefore must live. [The relationship] is unfair to Uhura. _The conversation covers many things, including the name of his bondmate, but these are the words that circle in my mind.

I imagine a piece of glass in my hand, crystal clear, and I study it. I was named for the clarity of the morning star, and I search the piece of glass for that clarity. What do I feel? I mentally turn it over in my hand. What do I do? How do I go on?

The Admiral excuses himself to head upstairs to his study; he wants to see if he can contact McCoy, to find out if he's had any luck contacting Sarek.

I remember the tipping point between Spock and myself, how I had laughed over tea at something Spock had said; how he'd lowered his harp to his knees, studying me. I'd seen an unguarded look in his eyes that startled me, a look of both longing and despair. My face had quickly fallen, and his as quickly had become expressionless.

"No, don't do that," I'd said. Don't withdraw, don't hide yourself away, I'd meant.

"Please specify—"

But I'd caught him—and myself—by surprise and had simply taken his face in my hands and kissed him. And _oh _how he had kissed me back.

And then he had pulled away. "Nyota, you know Vulcans are bonded as children." He said softly, his hesitant fingertips reaching to trace my lips as if I were the original forbidden fruit.

And I realized then we had been heading for this moment for some time. "I know."

"I am no different in this. I am not…free."

Free? As if I were any more free from the ambition that had driven me to Star Fleet? Free from my sweet dream of becoming an officer on the Enterprise? Free from the years of time and effort I had invested in my dream? No, I knew I was no more 'free' for him. He may ultimately belong to another, but I felt I was just as bonded to Star Fleet.

"OK." I said, as if that were an answer.

He'd frowned a little, enough so that a crease formed between his eyebrows.

"Spock, serving on the Enterprise is everything I've ever dreamed of: where I'm heading with my life. Nothing changes that. This…" And I kissed the sweet cupid's bow of his mouth delicately, "what we have _for now_…is a gift."

"Most illogical." He'd replied, both honest and teasing at once. He cupped my face with his hands. "Carpe diem?"

"Those are the most _logical_ words I've heard all evening."

I close my hand around the imaginary glass, now a shard, tightening my hand until I can see the blood begin to seep from my hand. It is not painful enough. Yes, I have known. I have known from the beginning that he was bonded to another.

"Uhura." T'Qilah says my name sharply, and I open my eyes to find myself falling into her grey eyes, but the world isn't right. I hear my heartbeat pound once and everything suddenly becomes slow motion as the Healer reaches out…and...grips…my hand-

I gasp and look down: the hand I am squeezing around the shard is not mine, the blood seeping from it green. I look up sharply but instead of seeing T'Qilah I see everything blur and with another pound of my heartbeat I am dissolving, _shoved-_

Suddenly as if through a diaphragm, an organic stretching of time or reality, I am displaced: I look down again to find small brown hands. A child's hands, pudgy and dimpled at the knuckles, the arms that extend upward from them are small and round. I almost laugh: these hands are my own at no more than four or five, and I am in a landscape both familiar and unreal—the landscape of Africa. Or more precisely, Kenya as a child remembers the world: a place of brilliant color and smells and sounds. The savannah stretches away from me with the smells of summer dust and dry grass, and around me I hear all the clamor of both wild and family life. Above, as the last embers of sunset burnish the horizon, the sky has darkened to the teal of dusk that for a moment approaches green, and the evening star shines bright and pure and alone in the sky. I am in a world that makes sense: home, safe, safe to dream and hope for the future. I will fly to you one day, evening star, and I will ask you what you dream.

From the hedgerow there is a motion, from the shadows a cheetah lopes forward; one step, then another. Perfectly confident, it plops on its haunches, panting. I feel no fear, but I don't approach it.

"What do you want, cheetah?" I ask softly in Swahili, and I have not forgotten myself so much that my childish whisper doesn't surprise me.

From what seems like a great distance, my mother calls for me from our house: calls for me to come in, to be safe.

"Little Star," the cheetah responds with a twitch of its tail, in T'Qilah's flat Golic Vulcanir, "hold on to your truth."

_But I remember this—but how can it be?_

I close my eyes for what seems only a single blink, and another heartbeat strikes, deep, like a drum.

When I open my eyes again T'Qilah and T'Zel are staring at me and I feel like I have returned from a great distance.

I speak in Federation Standard. "You underestimate him. He's a gentleman. Of course I know he is bonded."

T'Qilah withdraws her hand and I have the odd sensation of a cool wind soothing my thoughts. It feels motherly, like love.

I stare at the healer. I swear I remember what I just saw, and that I saw that cheetah as a child. That was no false memory or dream. But as a child the words the cheetah had spoken to me were unintelligible. "The cheetah—"

"Yes, the cheetah," she says with a twitch of her mouth, not quite a smile, "a most fascinating sensation." T'Qilah turns, heading for the stairs. "Time is not what you think," she murmurs as she goes.

How could I have thought the Healer ordinary?

T'Zel catches my eyes, and gives a slight knowing roll of her own. She understands somehow that between heartbeats I stepped out of time into what humans would call a transcendent experience, a _vision. _She places a hand on the table beside me and speaks softly.

"I know T'Qilah's techniques may be hard for you to understand. I do not necessarily approve of our healers' techniques myself. Reality is not… some rug to be shaken and put to order. But what they do, what _she_ can do, works. Find peace in the logic of that, Nyota."

I hold her eyes, sure my own are wide. I'm shaken, certainly. "You're right. I don't understand."

T'Zel studies me, compassion clear on her face as she struggles and fails to find words to cross the cultural chasm between us.


	36. Ch 36 Holograms

Greyson's House, Seattle

Spock's POV

Skaal realizes I am faltering: I am physically cold, and at my emotional limits.

Healer T'Qilah has gone. She indicated her intent to evaluate the Shi'Khari children and left to allow me a moment to meditate; to recover from her work. I am shaking, but it is not entirely from the cold.

"Enough." Skaal says gently. "You must recuperate in a warmer location." And he simply takes me by the arm to lead me back up the hill to my grandfather's house.

For a moment I resist. For a moment longer I must merely breathe the brisk air, thinking of nothing, letting the cold breeze sort through my hair. I consider the numb coldness of my ears and nose, my hands. Perhaps I am nearing a physical state of shock. Above the house that has stood witness to my family's life, the great cedars sway in the breeze: fragrant, unchanged. I drop my head, concede my will again to the healer; let him lead me.

Inside the doorway the heat greets us like a blessing. It is quiet; there is no sign of the children, nor Grandfather, nor Aunt Grace. Distantly, upstairs, I can just hear T'Qilah's voice, but I cannot discern her words. I realize I am standing rather foolishly, uselessly, while Skaal gathers an afghan from the living room and returns to me. He does not wrap it around me; he takes me, rather, by the elbow and propels me toward the dining room.

Nyota is there, still working at on the transponder, a meter in one hand hovering over the equipment while she studies me. As always, she seems to glow with light, her energy warm and yet controlled. She looks away, worried, but does not move.

_I love you for respecting that I am Vulcan._

Skaal holds the afghan out to her. "I will make Spock tea to warm and hydrate him. You know how to warm him up."

Nyota's eyes widen and her face reddens, embarrassed. She has mistaken his words for a violation of our privacy. I glance at Skaal and see a very flustered Vulcan healer.

"I mean only, that, ah. Wrap him with the blanket." Skaal all but throws the knitted thing at her and skitters backward into the kitchen.

I seat myself beside Nyota at the table. She continues to hold herself back, so I scoot my chair a little closer to hers. When she meets my eyes, I lift an eyebrow at her, just a bit, in the way she has told me is flirtatious.

"His statement is accurate."

For a moment her face goes blank; then she turns away, breaking into a grin.

_I love you for letting me make you laugh._

"You do look cold." She stands just enough that she can wrap the afghan around my shoulders, then sits again. We are almost knee to knee.

I place my hands palm up on my knees: an offer, a request. She glances from my hands to my face knowing it is unusual for me to be so forward, so public.

She places her hands into my palms, sighing, and after a moment I realize we have leaned forward, our foreheads touching. I close my eyes.

_You are my refuge. _

"You look awful. Are you okay?" She murmurs.

"I don't know."

"Oh, baby…" She sits back and lifts her hands to my face, warming my skin with her hands. "You are so cold." After another moment she glances towards the kitchen to ensure our privacy, then lightly cups my ears with her hands. "Oh, Spock..." For a moment I allow it, she is only trying to warm me. But then I must pull away; too much.

"Spock…?" She searches my eyes.

I turn away from her. Where do I begin?

How can I say I have lost myself? I shift in the chair, turning slightly away.

Before me on the table there is a pile of clothing. I realize it is composed of my mother's old clothing: sweaters, scarves. I place my hands on it.

"…Why?"

"T'Zel brought those down for the children."

Oh. I nod once. Logical enough, but it is quite painful to see. I go through the steps I learned as a child to control my thoughts, to keep my mind from recalling precisely when Mother wore each article last. It is difficult to accomplish, and I feel my throat constricting.

My hands tighten on the material, and I pull fists full of the items to my face.

Distantly, I hear Nyota breathe in sharply. "Don't—"

Yes, this is Mother's smell: human, female and scented by kshush. And yet there is something more, something earthy and flowery: the scent of lilacs perhaps. My reaction is terrible, the pain intense. For a moment I am completely lost in grief. It seems to come at me in waves, and the Vulcan part of my mind analyzes the oscillations of it.

I am chagrinned to find I am weeping.

Nyota places a hand lightly on my shoulder.

"She said…whatever I chose to become…she would be proud of me."

Nyota whispers, "She would be."

I shake my head vehemently. "I murdered sentient beings. I violated the mind of one." I drop the material to the table and gently push the pile of clothes away.

I feel her hand tense. "Violated…? Oh, Spock, _kae'at k'lasa_?"

I turn to meet her eyes, fully expecting her revulsion, her rejection.

Her hand tightens on my shoulder. "On the Narada."

I nod. "Yes."

Her hands go to my face again, and she brings her face close to mine. She is angry and her voice is quiet, a near hiss. "You listen to me. You did what you had to do. If you violated the mind of one of the Romulans, I know it was because you had no other choice."

"It is a war crime to—"

"It was your only option. I know it."

Was it? The plan that Kirk and I devised called first for seizing information on the ship's layout.

Could I have hacked the information from the Narada's system? Possibly. Could I have beaten the Narada's layout from Gethon or another Romulan? Possibly. But hatred and rage had driven my choice.

Time. Time had been the tipping point; I did not believe time allowed for any other decision. I know this one element of my choice to commit the war crime was pure logic. Beyond that...my logic failed.

I am not who I thought I was.

I am not as strong as I thought I was.

"Spock." Nyota calls forcefully, and I realize how far my mind has wandered…

"_Who am I?"_ I choke out, my voice anguished and we are both startled by it.

I pull away from her and stand, and shudder as I force myself to regain control.

I stride away, to the living room mantel, to the hologram of Sarek and Mother and myself. I pick it up and hold it in my hands. I am only three years old in the picture, and I realize Skene is absent because my mother is pregnant with her. I gently put the hologram back in its dust out-lined spot and go to the bookshelf.

After a moment, I find what I am looking for. It is an old-fashioned thing: Grandmother Greyson called it her scrapbook, but it is actually an album of holograms. I return to the table with it, and I am relieved to find Nyota waiting there for me.

"May I?"

"Please do." She sweeps her hand over the empty chair beside her, playing along. I place the album on the table between us and open it.

Nyota leans forward, interested.

"This one is of my parents before they were married."

She looks from the page to me, and understanding is dawning in her face. Yes, she understands: I need to re-ground myself, to begin at the beginning.

I walk her through my family's story, from my parent's courtship and marriage, my father's ambassadorial peregrinations, their struggle to conceive me.

Skaal places tea before both Nyota and myself and excuses himself to go upstairs. He studies me intently, but his eyes linger approvingly on Nyota. As do mine.

"And this one?"

"A birthday party for my mother."

"How did they get you to wear that silly hat?"

"With great difficulty." I say lightly, then pause. "To please her." I add more seriously.

"You loved her." Nyota says, more to herself than to me.

I look away. Would it be such a betrayal of my Vulcan heritage to simply allow it? Even Father had finally admitted as much.

"Yes."

"And she loved you so much." Nyota's elegant fingers tenderly trace the edge of the hologram. "I can see it."

"Yes."

There are only a few pages left. Nyota does not comment on the spaces of obviously missing holograms.

Here is the hologram of the last family reunion. And a hologram of my Grandmother, Robbie, myself, Skene.

"Your Grandmother…Grace told me she was killed in the battle for Vulcanis."

"Yes, by the Romulan Commander Vehkris. The Vulcan Defense Force rescued Sarek and my grandfather, but not before my Uncle's ship was destroyed. That battle contributed to my decision to choose to the Vulcan way following my Kahswan."

Nyota turns and silently studies my face.

"Grandmother and Uncle Robert's murders…were the first family deaths I experienced. And for them to have died violently…"

"I'm so sorry."

I nod. The wound is old. "I knew I could drown in hatred and live for revenge or I could follow Surak's way, and commit myself to working for peace with the Romulans." I shake my head slightly. "I was an idealistic child."

"You were a good child."

I fan my hands out on the tabletop, thinking of the time traveler, my older self who calls himself Selek. On our return to earth, Kirk had filled us in on Selek's story. That Selek had failed in his mission to save Romulus, to stop the Romulan sun from going supernova. That Selek had been captured by Nero, which placed the red matter in Nero's hands.

"Selek…" It appears my commitment to forging peace with the Romulans had ended up destroying Vulcan. I…cannot begin to parse out my guilt or lack thereof for this outcome. _I_ did not cause this, but "I" evidently did.

"Evidently trying to make peace with the Romulans doesn't work out very well." My attempt at dark humor only causes tears to well up in Nyota's eyes.

We sit in silence for a moment.

"Grace said your father saved her life." Nyota says softly.

I did not realize Aunt Grace felt so. Yes, perhaps it is true. It was not typical for humans to receive medical treatment on Vulcan. But within the family, Grace's disability is never spoken of.

"Father was…he believes he bears a great moral debt for causing such damage to my mother's family. He recruited them for the undercover mission."

Nyota takes my right hand between hers and presses my fingers to her lips.

"My mother lost her mother and brother. Yet she never blamed my father for it. She could have."

"She was strong, baby. Like you."

_I love you for your faith in me._

"The little girl in the hologram is Skene, isn't it? The one between you and Robbie?"

"Yes."

"Oh, she was really beautiful. Look at those eyes. They're like your Grandfather's."

Little sister: in the defining memory I hold of you, you stand at the water's edge, the wind in your hair, looking up at me with those striking eyes. But more important to me…was the expression within them.

"When my sister was killed…I swore I'd protect Mother from ever experiencing such pain again. She had already lost so much, and then the accident…" I do not mention the many long nights I stayed with her in the hospital, as Mother recovered from the same accident that had stolen my sister's life.

"Oh, Spock…It's not possible…You can't…"

"Of course such a thought was illogical." I add quickly. "Nonetheless, I decided it was my duty to protect her."

I close the album, letting my hand rest on its cover.

"It is my fault Mother died. It was unnecessary."

"What do you mean?" Nyota asks levelly, her eyes narrowing, not liking something about my tone.

"When we exited the Katric Ark, Vulcan was collapsing into itself. Shi'Khar was collapsing before us. Had these things not distracted me I would have noticed the fracturing of the ground, the fault that took her. I murdered her as surely by inattention as I did the Romulans by phaser fire."

Nyota is shaking her head, her expression frantic. "No, no, no. You can't blame yourself. _You can't."_

I am puzzled by her reaction, but…my field of vision is narrowing oddly. I press the heels of my palms to my eyes.

She stands and calls toward the stairs. _"T'Zel? T'Qilah? Admiral!"_

I hear rapid footsteps, and Healer T'Qilah is running to me and, with a glance at Nyota, she places her hand on my face.

"Your alarm was merited. He is destabilizing. It is fortunate you recognized this." The Healer directs her words to Nyota, not me. "We need to act _now_."

"Tell me how you have helped him." Nyota demands, her voice shaking with anger and fear.

I did not even notice Skaal's return until this moment. "Let us move into the other room, Healer. Away from this equipment."

T'Qilah takes Nyota's hand, helping her rise. "He can speak of the battle within the Narada. The memories of the mind he violated no longer torment him. Now, quickly. Come."

The Healers pull us both toward the living room.


	37. Ch 37 Memories

Admiral Greyson's House, Seattle

Uhura's POV: In the dreamlike state of a mind link, she slips in and out of her own and Spock's perspective while visiting his memories.

A/N: Technical References from Wiki/Memory Alpha. (A little holiday reading for you.)

I am falling. I am surrounded in darkness. I have chosen to mentally link with Spock and the Healers. For a moment I am afraid but suddenly sense Spock's nearness. There is sorrow, but it is something I sense the Healers holding at bay. It is a thing that burns hot, but for now it is beyond the horizon of this darkness.

I am disembodied, ephemeral. I feel like I'm standing in the dark with a room full of silent people.

Spock wants to communicate to me what he's seen on Vulcan, its destruction, but he has not wanted to hurt me with the memories, either. I expect to see Vulcan: to work with the Healers to somehow resolve his guilt over his mother's death.

_Let go of your fear. _

I sense this thought, but it is not Spock's, not his alone. It is a chorus of minds, a unity. This is something very alien, very Vulcan and I sense myself recoiling, retreating. But I must trust them.

_Let go of your expectations._

I clear my mind and I feel like I am in my beloved's arms.

I do nothing more than open my eyes and I am—unexpectedly-in a hospital room. The faint light is weak and cold and as gray as if all the life has been sucked from it. The windows are rain-washed and it gives a strangely suffocating and underwater gloom to the room.

I hold up my hands and see nothing. No self. No Spock. No Healers.

I let go of my fear. I let go of my expectations.

In the middle of a room is a hospital bed, holding a woman in critical condition. Her face is swollen and it is evident that it is taking a lot of specialized equipment to keep her alive. This must be Seattle, after the spaceport accident…this must be Spock's mother.

A rather square upholstered chair has been pushed up to the side of the bed, the back of the chair to the bed. On the floor nearby there is a pecked at plate of undressed salad and carrot sticks, with several empty applesauce cartons abandoned nearby. The sounds of the room shift and become clearer.

I turn around at a gagging sound and see a small boy picking up a saucer of spaghetti from a bed tray. Slim and dark haired, with unmistakable and delicately upswept ears and eyebrows I recognize the young boy as Spock, from the holograms both at his apartment and his Grandfather's house.

"Not only does it look like blood covered worms it smells like meat," he murmurs to himself. He picks up the plate and, holding it at arms length, he lets himself into the connecting bathroom. After a moment I hear a flushing sound.

A young and preoccupied doctor enters, "Greyson, Amanda." He turns her arm roughly to confirm the identification wristband's correlation with his pad's data.

He busily continues checking monitors and making notes on his pad when the young boy returns to the room. The boy seems startled by the doctor and hides the plate behind his back. With a rather deft movement the child surreptitiously slips the plate into a waste bin.

"No visitors. Family only." The doctor snips at the child, giving him nothing more than a perturbed glance.

The boy climbs up to sit on the back of the chair. Putting his feet into the side of the support structure of the bed, he takes the woman's hand.

"Kid. Come on. Humans are not here to be your personal science experiment. Now shoo."

At the child's defiant look, the doctor taps his COM. "Security. I've got a sightseer in room 2124." He sighs.

"I am not a sightseer. I belong here."

"Yeah, right."

"She is my mother and I am not leaving her."

He rolls his eyes. "You must not have noticed that 'your mother' is human."

The child's voice raises three pitches. "I am entirely aware that my mother is human."

"Right." The doctor then mutters, "Note to self: Vulcan kids have imaginations."

A nurse comes running. "Doctor Evans—"

"Has the staff been _asleep_? What are you doing letting children wander into the ICU?"

"Doctor—"

"Is he visiting, or does he have family somewhere in the hospital?"

"Doctor, he wouldn't leave-"

"Obviously—"

"No, his father asked us to watch over him while—" The nurse makes a slashing motion at his neck and makes a face.

"Oh, thank god. Security. Get that kid out of here."

The boy simply leans over and locks his arms around the bars that run the length of the bed.

The security guard swallows. "Ah, I don't think you want a diplomatic incident here. That kid's Vulcan."

"Obviously. So _obviously_ he doesn't belong here." The doctor lowers his face to the boy. "Look. Your kind worships logic. Why don't you just do the logical thing and go back to the visitors' area?"

"If I were allowed expletives I would use them." The boy's eyes narrow in determination.

The doctor straightens and laughs. "Interesting. Well, kid. If you don't choose to go, and if our good friend the security officer here doesn't want to touch you, I have ways of helping you decide." He pulls up a hypo gun from his pocket and starts adjusting it.

The boy swallows. "Most medicine makes me sick. Really sick. Please don't use that. Don't."

From behind the doctor a powerful hand descends on the doctor's, plucking the hypo from his grasp. "You would threaten a child?"

The doctor whirls on the intruder, coming face to face with the Vulcan Ambassador.

"This area is restricted, sir. You should control your child." The doctor attempts to pull rank, even in the face of the Ambassador's dangerously glowering eyes.

"If he wishes to stay with his mother it is allowed under your facility's policy. I made sure of it. Your accommodation is appreciated during this most difficult experience for our family."

The doctor looks both furious and embarrassed. "That child is half human?"

"He is _our_ son." Sarek steps to his wife's bedside and brushes her hair back from her face. And bends over and kisses her forehead.

In a blink, all is darkness again, warm and brown like a burrow, and I sense Spock's thoughts:

I did not understand my father's gesture. I had never seen him kiss Mother. I thought he'd performed some kind of diagnostic touch. I saw, but I did not understand.

I realize I am seeing Spock's memories.

I experiment, and think into the darkness: _what's up with the spaghetti?_

And I sense his humor: _An unfortunate experience with Klingon cuisine during one of my father's postings. _

And I sense I am falling yet again.

Falling and there is no end to the darkness, but suddenly I am looking into Spock's eyes and he is holding me and is as unguarded as when we are alone together. But before a thought can even rise to my mind he dissolves like sand blown by the wind and I am alone again. Alone…but before me is a trail, just barely visible, and I follow it. There is a dim light in the distance and it grows, glows, and I realize it is a wall. I walk along it for what seems like hours. There is something constructed about it; but it also seems old and scabby, like a wound. There is no end to it; no beginning, its height is lost in shadow. It glows though, dully, from within.

_What are you?_ I ask the wall.

I suddenly realize Spock is before me, facing the wall and seated as if in meditation. _My bond with T'Pring is blocked by this._

_A wall? _

_Yes. _

_Whose wall is this?_

_My bondmate built this. _

T'Qilah's voice is firm: _Do not be a resentful child, Spock! Own this._

After a long silence: _Yes. I…contributed to its construction, too. _

I walk to the wall, raise my hands to touch it but it is like pressing into the opposing polarity of a magnet. I press my hands into the resistance, reach out…

There is an instant where the wall becomes hazily translucent and I see a Vulcan woman, tall and heart-wrenchingly beautiful, place a hand on her stomach and turn to a window. She presses a hand to the window, toward the city lights beyond. _Spock...lost companion of my childhood: I regret my violent thoughts toward you. But I choose not to be unsettled by the imposition of your emotions. _Her hand slowly caresses the rise of her stomach and the image slowly fades away. I turn back to Spock, but the meditating figure is a shadow: I can't see his face.

T'Qilah and Skaal flank us, hands raised toward the wall. There is a blinding flash of white light and suddenly the wall is gone.

Spock and the woman stand in the distance, facing each other, what looks like a smoldering vine on the ground between them.

Like a rush of wind T'Qilah blows past me, lightning flashes, and she stands in front of me, protectively, facing the couple in the distance. _This foolishness ends now. Take the energy you wasted on this barricade and return it to your lives. This wall was a monument to pride—for both of you. And it might have destroyed both of you. _

In the distance he stands alone, T'Qilah and the woman are gone. I walk and walk as if through some viscous fluid and finally reach him.

_Spock?_

_Fascinating. I did not know the bond could be broken so easily._

Skaal straightens, lifting and examining the still smoldering vine. _Easily? You've both spent the majority of your lives trying to kill it. Your resistance had more life than this bond._

I meet Spock's eyes and there is sadness there. And fear. If the bond is dissolved he is now at mortal risk if struck by his reproductive cycle. I hadn't truly felt the weight of that risk until now.

I realize the ruddy glow on the horizon is growing; and the dark plane of the wall stretches and is pulled toward that distant maw.

T'Qilah stands with us now, the four of us in a circle, the way this journey began. Somehow I understand we are gathering energy. Spock and I hold hands tightly, T'Qilah and Skaal stand on either side of us touching our faces like they are completing an electrical circuit.

_Quickly, _T'Qilah says, glancing at what appears as a ruddy horizon. _The most dangerous part of our journey begins. _

Spock's hands tighten around mine and I sense his concern for me, his will to protect me. _Nyota…_

I am plunged into a suffocating blackness unlike anything I've ever experienced.

Blackness, blackness and it is worse than the most horrible g-force training I have ever been through. Every step the gravitational pull seems to grow worse, and the air is blast furnace hot. But it is silent.

I realize I am running in the darkness, someone clinging to my arm; no, I am almost carrying her; I would be but for the narrowness of the passage, the danger of the falling rock. The intense gravity is growing, it feels like it's going to pull my heart from my body; each breath is an Olympic event. The woman on my arm is gasping for air, staggering, and only my strength holds her up. Gravity is increasing exponentially, exponentially! I burst from the cavern, but it difficult to see for the violent shaking of everything. Everything! The Llangon Mountains are caving inward on themselves. My communicator pulls from its holster with excruciating slowness! My mouth moves and there is no sound although my lungs burn from the violent gravity, and I am shouting into the device for our lives. I don't even turn to see if my father has survived.

I look into my Mother's eyes and suddenly there is SOUND: it crashes into me, crushes me, the screaming compression of the mantel of the planet as it is sucked apart—compacting, violently shaking. But I can just decipher her words: _It's okay to be afraid—_and then just as abruptly, silence.

We assume the transport pattern and Mother's hand slips from my arm only to take a half step away from me for the pattern—

In the silence my mother turns as the transport pattern begins to swirl around us; she turns, her face indecipherable, she turns to face me, to face my father, to see us…

My perspective shifts.

Everything stops. There is no gravity, no sound, no shaking. Spock too stands frozen in a shout into his communicator, his eyes taking in the horrific, violent scene: the entire landscape collapsing.

I wander around the frozen figures. Sarek is behind Spock, his lips parted as if to speak. The other elders stare at the scene before them in both disbelief and as if they are trying to remember it for posterity. There should be nine and there are five.

T'Qilah stands on the edge of the precipice with Skaal. Both hold their palms out toward the scene as if in protest, looks of horror on their faces.

The scene flicks forward one step.

Spock, even in the midst of transport forces his hand to reach toward his mother—a painful and dangerous act—he could easily have lost his arm if not his life—

Like a sound overlay I hear the repeat of what I heard on the ship, through the COM link: even with maximized filtration there is horrific turbulence, and there is Spock's voice in a single scream:_ Mother-!_

I circle again, looking at the crumbling world, frozen for a moment of time, studying the shattered mountain above, the sudden burning abyss lurching toward Shi'Khar, toward us…

In a voice-over I hear Spock's adult voice whisper in a litany, listing: _Grandfather Skon, Grandmother T'Rama, my aunt, my half-brother Sybok, cousin Horek and his twin infant daughters, the staff that has served us for generations, our neighbors… _

On the ledge a small Vulcan boy reaches out toward the woman as she reels backward. From his hand to the woman a white light arches and glows like a tractor beam, keeping her from toppling.

…_my ka'athyra teacher Sonet, the Vulcan Science Academy, the Federation Institute for Diplomacy and Peace Studies, the ancient Shi'Kahr library, the performing arts hall, Shi'Kahr's renowned medical University…_

I hear the Healer's voice, clear and certain: _find it._

…_Grandfather Skon's original translations of the works of Surak into earth languages, his father's original records of first contact with earth…_

What had Spock said? He'd blamed himself for inattention. Inattention to the fracturing world beneath their feet…

…_the works of the great artist T'Leel and the scientist Sakar; all the artists, the teachers, the administrators, shopkeepers, researchers, cooks, workers, pets, gardens…_

I slowly walk to the woman and study her. Even in her anguish, she is lovely, even featured, with beautiful dark eyes. I see where Spock got his sensual, expressive mouth.

…_the Forge itself; the Llangon Mountains and the stars framing their peaks at night; the le matya and all the wild creatures there; Mount Seleya, the Healers and Adepts of Gol; the smell of plomeek wafting into the streets as the City wakes; the regional foods and crafts, the dust and spires and all that is Shi'Kahr…_

I look at the ground. I am no geophysicist, I don't know what I'm supposed to be looking for…but here I see something: a seam, not a fracture. Layman though I am in this area, I can see a fresh slip of only a few millimeters. This would be easily missed—it is an ancient fracture that will collapse from beneath, it is already beginning to slide unsuspected. With all the violent shaking and noise and collapse surrounding us, it would have been impossible to detect, and there would have been no sound, no crack of warning.

…_the Katric Ark itself, the ancient place of meeting; all that is great and ordinary, all that is Vulcan…_

I go to the boy. _You have to let her go._

_No. I swore I would protect her._

_You cannot promise this. _

_I cannot let her go—_

_You can't hold her here. It's sickness to do so. Denial._

_I cannot fail her like this—_

_You tried. You were incredibly brave to even try to save her._

_I failed her. I failed her._

The tractor beam light binding the two fades and Spock watches her plunge backward into the abyss—

Even the Healers gasp—

And there is darkness. Silent, empty darkness.

Darkness and eternity. Darkness.

But a warmth grows, and I know somehow we have been joined in the link by the Admiral and T'Zel and their strength is renewing us, lifting us. Distantly I feel T'Zel's hands on my shoulders; I know somehow the Admiral's hands are on his grandson's shoulders.

In a flash it is a beautiful summer day and Friday Harbor is spreading out below as we slowly rise into the air. A teenaged Spock sits with his mother in a small seat on a Ferris wheel feeling quite conflicted.

_How did I let her talk me into this? _

The wheel swings to a stop with the pair seated at its summit. Amanda's mouth twitches mischievously, and she extends her arm around her son's shoulders.

"It's not every day they bother to bring a Ferris wheel over to the Island." She shifts closer and lays her head on his shoulder. "And where I can trap you enough to give you a hug."

"Mother this is inappropriate." But his tone is more of a sigh of resignation. He is not really objecting. The sea, the island, the harbor spread below them: all greens and blues and whites, with sailboats plying the Sound. The scene is incredibly beautiful.

Soon he will be entering the Vulcan Science Academy. Soon, if all goes well he will begin to study for Kolinahr—the purging of all emotion, the ultimate achievement for a Vulcan. Perhaps…she deserves this moment he realizes. He will never be able to share a moment like this with her again when he achieves it.

His mother leans back, basking in the sun, fully in the moment, fully _enjoying_ the moment: purely happy. And he thinks she is extraordinary. And beautiful.

"Oh, son. I love you so much." Her eyes slide to his for just a moment, making eye contact, expecting nothing. "Thank you for indulging me, just this once. I know this is a thoroughly illogical activity."

There is an ache in his side. It is as close as he ever comes to telling her he loves her. He takes her hand in his and holds it tightly.


	38. Ch 38 Sel Paradigms

Admiral Greyson's House, Seattle

Sel's POV (The history student)

Technical References from Memory Alpha

(x/ref Ch 20, for Teacher Selen)

A little beta-ing thanks to my son!

The Healer's presence confirms to me what Sepek, Savar and I have so far deduced-we will not be going home. We understand from our circumstances that there has been some great catastrophe, probably involving Vulcan. What is, is; it is logical to accept our situation. T'Nola and T'Pem have…resisted our conclusions, preferring to wait for the adults to share the facts with us.

The human elder-woman has been trying to distract us with activities; we six children are playing a human game with her on the floor of the upstairs hallway. I do not entirely comprehend the purpose of the Monopoly game, although I can perform the tasks required. In the terms of this activity I am performing well, however. I may be winning.

Elder Grace speaks Shi'Khari fluently, if with a typical human lisp. Teacher Selen said humans are capable of forming the consonants of Vulcan languages, but find the sounds harsh. He further indicated it is typical human behavior to adopt and adapt rather than conform, so I should not find fault with such imperfection. I should, as he said, celebrate infinite diversity in infinite combination, and find satisfaction that our two species can communicate so well.

I have much yet to learn to understand these aliens. It does not seem to me that we communicate so well at all.

Teacher Selen was fascinated by communication. He taught us more than logic-he trained us to recognize both effective and weak forms of communication: bias, perspective, and persuasion. But he found paradigm shifts particularly interesting. The greatest paradigm shift of all for the Vulcan people was the great Awakening: the adoption of logic and the precepts of Surak.

Selen taught us to observe how ideas could catalyze social change or conversely be lost to time: how paradigms could shift. And that people or civilizations that fail to change, fail.

Two thousand years ago Vulcan was nearly destroyed by relentless conflict and nuclear weapons. Two hundred years ago, humans almost destroyed themselves in the same way. Teacher Selen believed insight into the time of Surak could be gained by observing human society's more recent response to the similar cultural challenge. He also wondered if the Kir'Shara, Surak's philosophy of peace through logic and the control of emotion, was taking hold at all on earth.

But Surak's precepts flowed out of a time of war; they developed in response to particular assassinations and battles. Surak stood on the Plain of Blood that flowed from the Battle of the One Hundred Thousand when he delivered of the Dialect of Peace. Without knowing this, the Dialect's full impact would be lost, would it not?

"Children, this is Healer T'Qilah." With some difficulty Elder Grace starts to rise from the floor, but the Healer motions for her to stay. Elder Grace gives our names to the Healer, and we nod in acknowledgement one by one.

The Healer settles gracefully to the floor, tucking her robes beneath her as she sits, and watches in silence as we play the game. I sense her deeply observing us, though. After a while another Healer comes, a young male, and he leans against the wall-also silently watching.

Savar sits back, taking leadership. "What is the news of Vulcan, Healer T'Qilah."

The Healer and Elder Grace's eyes meet, the human's sudden anxiety palpable, obvious. Grace calls to T'Zel, who quickly joins us from where she has been working in the Ambassador's adjacent room.

"Express where logic has led you, Savar." T'Qilah says softly.

Savar looks around at us, and swallows. "Something has happened on Vulcan. Something terrible. A natural disaster, or an attack of some kind. Something that prevents our return."

"A logical deduction. You are correct that we cannot return."

"Ever?" T'Pem squeaks, shocked. "But, but what about our _families?"_

"Vulcan was attacked. The planet was destroyed."

T'Nola and T'Pem clasp hands but make no noise.

"Surely with our scientific advantages, our cities and agriculture can be restored—"

"Kroykah." The Healer interrupts me, silences me. "Sel, there will be no restoration."

Savar's hands go to his knees and he bends forward toward the healer, emphatic. "Clarify."

"Vulcan is gone."

We children, nearly as one body, whisper: _gone_?

The Healer continues on, her voice even, logical. "The planet was destroyed by an anomaly, the creation of a black hole. Nothing remains to restore."

The two girls crumple into one another, clinging. Selar takes Savar's hand. Sepek bends forward. And I run to my sleeping bag and lay face down on the floor.

After a moment I feel footsteps and someone sits on the floor beside me.

"There is nothing we can do but go on." It is Healer Skaal.

I roll onto my side to look at him, and my control is probably flawed. "I have lost _everything."_

"We have _all_ lost everything." It is a fact. He says it gently, though.

I bury my face in my sleeping bag again. He is correct, but if Vulcan is _gone_, then Shi'Khar-then everyone at home…

"There is a human saying; pain is unavoidable, but suffering is optional." I feel a light touch against the side of my face. "Rest. Grieve, but do not suffer."

And for a time, I am lost in a warm and restful nothingness.

When I awaken, my thirst is overwhelming. First I rise and check on the others. In their room, the three girls sleep. Elder Grace is with Sepek and Savar and they too are sleeping—or perhaps the Healers have gifted us all with healing trances.

Moving about alone, this house seems larger and stranger. I have not moved about it unattended. I know my way, but I go warily down the stairs. I do not know the customs here.

I sense a tension, an energy, and stop on the stairs to watch a strange display dissolve. All the other adults, including the healers, are in the living room in a circle. The healers' hands lift from Spock and Uhura's faces, breaking the circle; and T'Zel steps back from behind Uhura, her hands falling to her side. The Admiral's hands are on Spock's shoulders and slowly drop away.

Spock looks exhausted; he walks, swaying, toward the sofa. Without looking at anyone he sinks into it, breathing out in a long exhalation. He lies down, and rolls onto his side facing the back of the sofa while his partner settles into the crook of his knees. Her arm rests along his thigh as if it were the arm of a chair.

For an instant I see Spock's face in three-quarters profile. He does not wish his loss of control to be seen; I understand this by the way he turns his face into his arm. But I have glimpsed something I wish I had not: an expression of distress not meant for my eyes; a horrified sorrow that only confirms what I would rather not know. I feel my knees go weak and I sink onto the stairs, unable to move.

And he is an adult, a trained Star Fleet officer. If he suffers so, how can I possibly hope to bear this?

The next moment I am aware of, Admiral Greyson is lowering me into a kitchen chair with the help of T'Zel.

"Sel. Sel, would you like a glass of water?" She asks, and I am grateful to hear Shi'Kahri spoken.

"Yes, please."

And they watch me attentively while I drink. I set the glass down carefully on the table, and meet their eyes. I am shaking, but my control has yet to completely fail.

"I wished to study history, not witness it."

I long for my parents. I miss my teacher.

I am a child. My control is less than perfect.


	39. Ch 39 Rest

Admiral Greyson's House, Seattle

Uhura's POV, Post Healer's Meld

Outside a light wind has begun to blow, and it has scattered the fog that drifted in earlier this afternoon. Late afternoon sunlight slides through the house at a low angle. Golden fingers of light sift between the trees.

I watch the beams refract along the living room walls, angle around the furniture, set drifting dust motes on fire.

The house is so quiet.

Almost immediately after the mind meld, and not wanting to disturb the children upstairs, Spock fell asleep on the couch. He asked me to stay close. With him laying down, there was little room left; so I sat next to him in the only place I could: in the little hollow left by his bent knees.

I'm sure Spock's father Sarek would be appalled by this display, but Sarek's not here.

Reliving his memories with the healers was more difficult for Spock than he had anticipated. I'm grateful and humbled that he'd wanted or needed to share them with me. I'm doubly grateful for having seen the love on Amanda's face, for seeing her tell Spock she loved him. But his memories of Vulcan's destruction were hard to bear, even for the healers.

I realize I don't know where the Healers have gone.

The Admiral and T'Zel must be in the kitchen, I hear soft sounds coming from there. T'Zel is speaking softly in Shi'Khari.

When we beheld Spock's memories of Vulcan's destruction, the healers withheld most of the deafening sound from me; they protected me entirely from sensing—as Spock had-the massive numbers of lives around him extinguishing. And I am grateful they did so. But because I was made part of the Healers' work, I have seen more closely into Spock's heart: this brilliant, brave and devastated man.

I watch him breathe as he sleeps. I know he has hardly slept since the Narada. At first, after the meld, when he was still putting himself in order, he buried his face in his arm. But now he's relaxed into real sleep, thanks to T'Qilah. Even sleeping, though, his right arm stretches across his body so his fingertips can just intertwine with mine.

Spock breathes deeply, evenly. His beautiful long eyelashes lay dark on his cheek.

What do I want?

I want to take you in my arms. I want to brush the hair from your forehead and press kisses there. I want to tell you over and over how it will all be ok when it will never be. To tell you what a good man you are to have loved your mother so dearly. To ask about the woman T'Pring and the sadness and bitterness you felt toward her. I want to tell you your father loves you, too—you don't know this and it is so clear to me.

I want you to know what a butterfly kiss is, to show you how to use those long dark lashes.

But none of this is what you need, at least for now. You need to sleep; to rest; to heal the exhaustion that has left you drawn and sallow-to find yourself, your bearings.

So I am here, my love. Rest.

Soon enough I will feed you rich avocados until you can't eat any more. I will press slices of tree-ripened peaches to your lips and watch your eyes close in surprised pleasure. We will shell pistachios as we play Scrabble in two intersecting languages—I in transliterated Vulcanir and you in Swahili-Vulcanir vertical, Swahili side to side. We'll ride bicycles again along the bay. You will discover that you have not lost everything; you have not lost everything.

I sit quietly curled into your legs; my fingertips just touching yours. I watch the shifting beams of afternoon sunlight dance across the room.

The house is so quiet.

Rest. I'm here beside you.


	40. Ch 40 Kirk & Intel

Vulcan Embassy, San Francisco

The Embassy Garden, awaiting beam-out

Kirk's POV

A/N: Rewrite.

Sarek holds his communicator out to me and I hesitate before taking it. It's a beautiful piece of technology; Sarek's no doubt representing Vulcan's finest workmanship. And it's irreplaceable.

"It's for you." He says wryly, urging me again to take it.

It's his clerk, and she's been looking for me. We have a brief conversation.

"T'Zel out."

I fold the Ambassador's comm closed but take a moment to admire it, turning it around in my hand and trying to ignore the sudden lump in my throat. How many of these exist, now?

We've finally made it out of the Embassy to Scott's beam-out spot in the Embassy's garden. Sarek relented and was ready to return to Seattle with McCoy but every few feet, as Selek shepherded us along, there was a question to answer, a document to sign, a decision to make. No wonder the Ambassador is conflicted over his absence from here: there's so much unfinished business, and what work still manages to capture his attention he handles with practiced grace—not like a man in dire need of heart surgery.

And here I am with my one small task and I haven't accomplished it. Not yet, damn it, but I will.

I hand Sarek back his communicator, and he slips it into some invisible pocket in his dark, formal robe. His clerk T'Zel wanted an update on my plan's progress: I'm looking for someone to fill in for Uhura at Intel tonight. It's payback; making up to Spock. Making a night together in Seattle possible will be my peace offering to both of them.

I ran the idea past Sarek's clerk to make sure I wasn't going to make some Greyson social or Vulcan cultural faux pas-and T'Zel leaped on the idea, making me wonder if enthusiasm isn't an emotion. Now she's badgering me to confirm completion of the task. This was her third call in two hours, but she's given me some good leads on possible Romulan language translators.

McCoy flashes me an astonished look, and I hold my hands up.

"Can't a guy do something decent without you pulling a face?" I make like my project's no big deal, but I'm a little insulted. How self-involved does he think I am?

Sarek just continues to give me that same evaluating stare, but his eyes narrow a bit more: thoughtful, calculating but not coldly so.

The skinny Vulcan boy we've been waiting for finally arrives, meeting us here in the Embassy garden with a duffel bag of clothes for Sarek. The Ambassador kneels to open the bag and sorts through it. He pulls out a black cloak, which he carefully folds over his arm-sensibly planning ahead for Seattle's colder climate—and continues to explore the bag's contents.

"Since when do _you_ want to do something decent for Spock? You hate each other's guts." McCoy says under his breath to me, and throws a look at Sarek. "No offense." He adds, realizing Sarek probably heard him anyhow, given superior Vulcan hearing.

"I'm over that." I say, a little short. Hate Spock? Shit, I left that back at the Academy. I probably feel lot of things about the man-jealousy for one-but hate? After what we went through together? After what I did to him? Nah. I admire him. And I _owe_ the guy. Well, granted, he did beat the crap out of me.

Selek, curious, looks from McCoy to me. "I speak Romulan. All—"

"—three dialects?" I interrupt with Uhura's credentials, still a little miffed, sarcastic.

"Yes. That is correct." Selek is surprised.

"Yeah. Figures."

"Indeed?" Selek gives me a puzzled look, but waits—unlike McCoy.

"Do you really think Intel is going to let who-ever the hell this is" McCoy gestures at Selek, "waltz in off the street and translate classified Romulan transmissions?"

Selek gives McCoy a strangely amused look, which just serves to confuse the doctor.

"If I can't get Intel to relent they're going to drag Uhura back down here in a couple of hours." I say this to Bones, but Selek turns sharply toward me.

"Ah. I understand." Selek nods. "May I volunteer to relieve Cadet Uhura? It is unlikely you will find anyone more proficient in Romulan short of a collaborator."

"Absolutely." I see Selek is about as humble as his counterpart.

"Obtaining Fleet security clearance, however, may prove problematic."

"No it won't. Not really." I say, meaningfully. Who's going to catch on that Spock's in two places, after all?

McCoy blinks at me, then starts to fiddle with his tricorder.

Besides, I still have some just-saved-the-earth political capital burning a hole in my pocket. I'll spend it having Komack pull rank with Intel if I have to.

Sarek, his thoughts elsewhere, glances at Selek. He secures the duffel bag and stands. "Elder, if you have the Captain's confidence, and given our extenuating circumstances, perhaps the Embassy could vouch for you." Sarek tries to meet the Elder's eyes, but Selek keeps his face averted. "I'm afraid I do not know you."

"Indeed. You never did." Selek says quietly into the distance, causing Sarek's brow to arch. Selek straightens and faces Sarek. "I am Selek. I was a teacher for many decades on Romulus. In the underground."

At that bit of information Sarek's eyebrows shoot upward, wary. And damn, what a slick bit of deflection.

"I am Vulcan. I am not a Romulan spy, although there were those on Romulus who called me a Vulcan one. I have spent the latter half of my life working for reunification."

Sarek bows slightly. "Indeed, Elder Selek. Our survival as a people would seem to dictate either merger with our colonies or reunification with Romulus. I believe Vulcan's surviving population is too small to independently sustain itself."

"The Romulan sun will supernova. Reunification now would only ensure the elimination of what remains of Vulcan's people." Selek's voice does not hide his despair.

Sarek looks taken aback. "I request verification of your claim, Elder."

McCoy swears under his breath at his tricoder. "Oh, shit. _You're-_"

I grab Bone's arm with a shake him to stop him, giving him the evil eye. For God's sake man, I'm screaming inside: _don't reveal his identity-_

The doctor frowns back at me, unstoppable, and continues with a glance at Sarek, "-ah, you're the _time traveler."_

And I could almost sigh with relief.

For once I see the change in Sarek's expression, and it's severe, negative. But before Sarek can ask for clarification, Engineer Scott pages me on my own communicator.

"Kirk here."

"Are Doctor McCoy and the Ambassador ready to beam back to Seattle yet, Captain?" Scott asks, sounding impatient. "They're needin' me back in Engineering, sir."

Sarek can see I'm trying to control the situation and gives me a hard look before turning his intense gaze on Selek.

Selek's already backing away from us, giving Sarek a wary glance. "We will discuss Romulus at another time, Ambassador." Selek turns to me. "I will be at the entrance to Intel awaiting security clearance. Make it so, Captain." He pulls his hood over his head as he continues to back away. At the last moment he glances back at me. "And give young Spock my… encouragement."

Sarek now stares hard at McCoy—who squirms, like I did under the Ambassador's laser beam evaluation, but stays silent—then turns back to me. McCoy's starting to understand what a terrible mistake he almost made.

"Come with us." Sarek states, somewhere between a command and an invitation.

I hold my own this time, staring back into my XO's father's eyes for a long, very long moment. I can comm Komack on the way; with Sarek backing Selek, Intel will surely capitulate and let Uhura off. I shrug, still holding Sarek's gaze.

And damned if I don't feel a quick sting of envy for Spock, that he _has_ a father.

"Three to beam over, Mister Scott."

"Aye, aye, Captain."

More critical than giving Spock and Uhura time together is making sure Sarek never finds out Selek-his son-contributed to Vulcan's destruction. That would surely kill him.

I close my ordinary Fleet-issue comm, and nod to Sarek. "I'm in."


	41. Ch 41 On the Sound

On the Sound, Rob Greyson's yacht

Traveling from Friday Harbor to the Greyson House

McCoy's POV

I've always liked this time of day. Late afternoon on the Sound in Washington isn't anything like the South, but it's still summer. Looks like the sun just burned back the fog, too, by the way it's hanging over the islands and inlets. It's still warm enough to enjoy the ride, at least for me. Kirk's in his element, leaning out over the bow like he thinks he's Captain Cook: squinting into the wind, fair hair blowing wildly. Sarek is huddling in the back, in the black cloak he wrapped up in back at Friday Harbor, unreadable and looking physically cold.

Spock's cousin's piloting the boat again, a nice one: new and fast. Rob Greyson is a nice young man, good manners, and if you squint a little it's almost shocking how much he and Spock look alike. Shows how much my perception of Spock is skewed by his more obvious Vulcan traits. It's humbling to realize that I'm not as race blind as I thought I was.

I feel sorry for Rob: he's been quite the water taxi-man today, and I thank him for all he's done. He shrugs it off as the least he could do. These Greysons seem to be a pretty tight knit and decent family. I'm glad for Sarek and Spock that, unlike most of the Vulcan survivors, they have a support system.

As we leave the dock Rob gestures to one side of the harbor at a very nice facility that sits on the waterfront, the University of Washington's Marine Research Laboratory. Turns out he's the director of the place.

Sarek is arranging himself in the back of the boat, pulling his cloak tight, pulling the extra blankets Rob handed him over his legs. He looks resigned and distracted, as if he's still thinking about the Embassy and all the business going on there that most likely genuinely needs his attention.

Sarek's a handsome Vulcan man, I think, studying him. He's tall and long-legged, intelligent eyes of course, with a deep and commanding voice. I can _almost_ imagine a human girl being attracted to him. Almost. I'll have to nose around the Greyson place and see what more I can figure out about Spock's mother. I can guess she and I would have either hit it off or hated each other—no middle ground. Spock rubs me that way.

Of course, that begs the question: why on earth did Vulcan's Ambassador marry a human? Seems a little over the top for a demonstration of commitment to the job. How was that a logical choice?

More seriously: Sarek's a great man, one of the leaders of the Federation. What would it be like to have such a man for a father? What would it have been like as a child, to straddle the cultures of two worlds as different as Vulcan and Earth? No wonder Spock, back at the Academy, seemed like he had something to prove. Sarek must throw one hell of a shadow.

I work my way to the back of the boat and sit next to Sarek, but not too closely. This might be my best chance to figure out a thing or two about what's gone so wrong between those two.

I lean back for a bit, soaking in some sun and enjoying the water and speed, the brisk wind on my face. I grin, tickled to watch Jim relax and enjoy himself like a kid. He needs it. He and Rob really seemed to hit it off, and are tossing off-color jokes back and forth.

I watch for the fins of killer whales, not quite sure whether I'd like to see a pod of them or not.

"How long to the Greyson place?" I shout to Rob over the wind and motor. Despite playing aqua-taxi all day, he still seems to be enjoying the ride, too.

""Bout thirty minutes." Rob shouts back. He points forward, but none of the landscape—or perhaps I should say seascape—means anything to me: it's all just a mish mash of green islands and straits.

"Quite the view, isn't it?" I try to engage Sarek.

Sarek raises a weary eyebrow at me, not particularly interested in responding. I can almost watch the wheels turn as he carefully shifts his attention back to the present. He's very, very controlled and it reads as a Vulcan in pain to me.

"I presume you have a point, Doctor? I am disinclined toward small talk." He says, worrying the simple gold wedding band he wears on his left hand. When he realizes I'm watching the gesture he places his hands on his knees.

Okay, then. I can cut to the chase with the best of them. "What's with you and Spock?"

I can almost see his mental doors closing as Sarek looks away.

"Your son's mental health is as much my concern as his physical welfare. And he still needs my release to return to active duty." I'll play hardball if I have to.

With obvious effort Sarek turns back to me. "What do you wish to know?"

"Why…" And I realize it's not so easy to put into words after all. "Earlier…your reaction…" Sarek had lost it when he'd thought Spock was teaching the Vulcan children a stupid human drinking song. "You don't really trust him not to embarrass you."

Sarek stares hard at me for a long moment. I see no change in his face, but I sense that he's angry at what I've said. Perhaps it hit too close to home. After a moment he turns back to me, whatever his reaction was it's now completely controlled.

"Spock chose to dedicate himself to Star Fleet, in defiance of my wishes."

There's more than a little heat behind those words. "And?"

"Star Fleet is a military organization."

"So?" I egg Sarek on—not that I can't think of a lot of reasons why a father might object to his son entering the military.

For a moment Sarek's lips compress. "We are direct descendents of Surak, the founder of Vulcan's philosophy of peace and modern Vulcan society. As Surak's heirs, participation in a military organization is antithetical to Vulcan beliefs and my family's values."

After two thousand years Surak's bloodline would be pretty well diluted, even given Vulcans' longer life spans. And Spock wasn't the one who chose his human mother. I consider pointing out the weakness of his logic but think better of it.

"Did you mean to use Spock to prove humans capable of rising to Vulcan standards?"

The Ambassador's eyes flash. "_Use _him_-!" _He catches himself, realizing I was baiting him. He's quick; I'll give him that. "I never intended for my son to believe he needed to prove anything about himself or humanity. But, yes, I believed him capable of rising to Vulcan standards nonetheless."

"So he _has _had to prove himself."

"I am as much at fault as others for placing this burden on him."

"So…you disowned him when he joined Star Fleet."

Sarek studies me. "Worse." And he turns away.

For a good five minutes we watch the scenery pass by in silence and I wait-sensing Sarek's preparing himself, not done speaking.

And I'm right. He turns back to me, eyes hooded. "I had worked behind the scenes for many years to ensure Spock's admission to the Vulcan Science Academy. Spock is brilliant, even by Vulcan standards, and his academic record was unexcelled among his peers. Still there was deep resistance to his enrollment in the VSA. It was shameful. For Vulcan, not Spock." He clarifies. Sarek closes his eyes for a moment. "He never knew of the terrible words spoken of him, about humans, about his mother. I protected him from this. Perhaps too much so."

"So something unfortunate happened there."

The Ambassador nods. "At his admission hearing…the Chairman of the High Council made a bigoted remark regarding his mother, referring to his 'disadvantage'. Spock declined admission, and did so in a most controlled Vulcan manner."

I break into a grin. "Good for him."

"He honored his mother. And he departed from the Council honorably."

I wait, silent. I know there must be more. I watch as Sarek's hands—the long graceful fingers that had rested loosely on his knees-tighten into fists.

"We had words at home. I said his point had been made, that he could recant. He wouldn't. Our disagreement escalated."

Shit. This is too much for him; I can see the strain around his eyes. I rummage for my tricorder.

"I said his behavior shamed his entire Vulcan family; that declining admission would only prove every bigoted statement the Council had made about him and reiterated several of them. Divulging more of their prejudice…was a serious strategic error on my part."

"Sarek—" I try to interrupt him, holding my palm out to him to signal him to stop. I don't like his readings.

"Spock accused me of disrespecting his mother by not defending her honor to the Council. Of hurting her."

Sarek is silent for a long moment, breathing harder, and when he finally continues his voice is tight, a whisper, and I have to lean forward to hear him over the wind.

"I lost control. I struck my son. He left."

Holy Christ. I try not to show too much of the shock I feel. Yet if Rob or Jim were to turn and look at Sarek's face just now, nothing they could see there would reveal what Sarek had just confessed. I recall how mortified both Sarek and Spock had been at Spock's loss of control on the bridge of the Enterprise.

How shocking hitting his own child must have been for Sarek, who clearly cherishes his emotional control. And as much as Spock seems to overcompensate, he must have been an insecure child—so what a terrible physical and emotional blow that must have been for Spock.

We both fall silent and I turn away. But Sarek isn't through.

"He took nothing with him. We did not speak again until the Narada…"

How long ago would that have been? Maybe eight years? He's lost his wife, his people, his planet. The sorrow in his voice sounds like he believes he lost his son years ago.

"I'm sorry, Sarek."

"When he graduated with honors, I sent him my heirloom ka'athyra. To my relief, he kept it."

Rob turns, calling out from the wheel and pointing, "Over there. See it now, Doctor?"

I recognize the Greyson house just coming into view in the distance and nod.

We're silent for so long that this time I'm surprised when Sarek starts to speak again.

"The Admiral…took Spock to an emergency room when he arrived from Vulcan. Spock refused to discuss what had happened. Robert contacted me. I had struck Spock with enough force that he had broken his wrist catching his fall."

I meet Sarek's eyes and his face remains expressionless.

"Is there anything else you wish to know, Doctor?"

"Not at this time, sir." Sweet Jesus, I think I've heard all I need for one day.


	42. Ch 42 Greyson Remembers

Beachfront, Admiral Greyson's House/Memories

Admiral Greyson's POV

I finish posting the wood-fire permit on the railing of the dock and turn back toward the beach. That Kirk kid is looking happier than a clam, splitting wood and building up the fire. I'm warming up to him. When I'd asked him to help, he hadn't hesitated. He dove right in.

The Mandy Jane is perfectly tied to one side of the dock with Spock's precise knotwork, and it looks like he has about half the bright work refinished. His workmanship is outstanding, of course. It's almost surprising how satisfying he finds working with his hands. It wasn't that long ago he didn't know port from starboard, back when I'd taken him in. Back when he'd washed up here like a shipwreck.

It had been an unexpected crisis.

"Dad. I'm scared."

Amanda had lived on Vulcan long enough that it was surprising to hear her use such emotional language. "I'm sure he's just gone out to the Forge again." Spock had been running off there for years whenever he and Sarek butted heads.

"No. They said he headed downtown to the public transporter. You know I can't call the Peacekeepers again to find him."

I understood her hesitation. If one more search and rescue party was sent out for him, they'd been informed Spock would be sent to Mount Seleya for reprogramming to modify his 'disturbed behavior.'

"There was a terrible argument. The servants told me. And…and I found blood on a towel in his room. Sarek won't talk to me about it. Maybe Spock got hurt out on the Forge—"

"Mandy, you're catastrophizing. That's not like you." I attempted to calm her. "He could have cut himself working on one of his projects."

"You have friends, Dad." She insinuated, her voice quavering.

I realized she really thought he'd left the planet.

"He applied to Star Fleet Academy. I think he's heading for Earth."

"Without credits, how far do you think he'd get?"

"We're talking about Spock, Dad."

"True. I'll see what I can do."

One thing an old space dog like myself has is contacts. And I like to think I'm pretty good at figuring people out. Within a couple of hours I'd located my grandson. The cunning brat had talked his way onto a freighter with a promise to recalculate their fuel loading for greater efficiency, to more than pay for his passage in additional profitability.

According to the freighter's captain it had only taken the kid a couple of hours to accomplish that and he'd gone on to revamp their loading schedule for efficiency for an additional fee. The old bastard had been seriously thinking about shanghaiing the kid before I'd called.

Innocent kid. He didn't know how serious threats like that could be. But I'd put the fear of God in the man, dropping the names of a few Orion pirates who owed me favors, and he'd given me the freighter's ETA for Space Dock Four, promising to watch after Spock until then. Then he'd dropped the bomb.

"Just so you don't think anyone on my ship did it, do you know who beat him up? Looks like a shuttle hit him. And he's been keyboarding with one hand."

"No. Anyone fix him up?"

"Nah. He blends in better the way he looks. We don't have anything better to do around here than fight. If he were cherry my crew'd be all over him, looking to color him up just for fun. As it is even they feel sorry for him."

So I'd had a little preparation.

I almost wished I'd had the freighter captain warn Spock I would be waiting there at the space dock. He'd looked pretty forlorn walking off the freighter alone, walking into the huge empty warehouse. He'd looked around and seemed to steel himself.

And he did look like he'd been hit by a shuttlecraft. I strode up to him. "Come with me." I didn't leave him room to argue.

He'd blinked at me in surprise, entirely unprepared for me to be there.

I'd turned and walked away, and after a moment he'd simply followed.

I'd had us beamed straight to an Emergency Room in Seattle.

Spock wasn't happy with me, but he was realistic enough about his circumstances to know he couldn't argue.

The doctor we'd seen had given me a suspicious look. "Who did this to you?" He'd demanded of Spock.

"It was an accident."

No one can be more evasive than a determined Vulcan, I'd thought.

"Someone hit you."

"I traveled on a freighter. It lacked proper safety precautions." It wasn't exactly a lie.

"I see. And someone accidentally hit you with their fist?"

Spock stared into space. "You are being sarcastic. It is unproductive."

"Is this man really your Grandfather?"

Spock sighed. "Yes."

"Did he hit you?"

Spock's eyes flashed with anger and he stood to leave.

"Whoa, there, cowboy. I have to make sure you're safe and he's not abusing you."

Spock turned to me. "I apologize for this regrettable inquisition, Grandfather. It shames me." He turned to the doctor. "You will shut up and treat me or I will leave."

The doctor's eyes softened. "Okay, kid. Got it."

He'd broken out a cold pack for Spock to hold to the black and purple bruise discoloring the left side of his face. His left eye was half-swollen shut.

"A typical fight injury. Some serious bruising. A mild fracture of the occipital framework. Better to just leave that alone to heal. Whoever hit you packed a hell of a wallop." He waved his hand scanner over Spock's face a second time. "A little dizzy off and on?"

Spock hesitated, then nodded.

"Thought so. A mild concussion, too. Just take whatever kind of painkiller you prefer. It should clear up in a couple more days. But come right back in if not, okay?"

Spock gave a slight nod.

"Now give me your right hand."

Spock swallowed, looking at me. Hesitantly he pulled his arm up from beneath his robe. He'd splinted it with packing material and what looked like duct tape. And it was as swollen and discolored as his face.

The doctor was not surprised. "Let's get a look at it."

He'd removed the makeshift splint, and cleaned and imaged the injury. It had turned out to require surgery; a compound and spiral fracture, with several torn ligaments. And Spock had no tolerance for the device that sped up bone regeneration, on either human or Vulcan settings. On both settings he had gasped in pain and they'd had to stop. As a result he'd been placed in an old fashioned cast and given a sling.

"Primitive." He'd frowned at it, holding the cast up and wiggling his fingertips.

"It'll do the job. And no keyboarding with that hand, or the next cast will cover your fingers, too."

The doctor had then asked Spock a series of questions about his general health.

"This is the first time your father has hit you?" The doctor had continued flatly, continuing to fill out forms and not turning around.

"Yes." Spock answered automatically, a habit from Vulcan schooling.

Then closed his eyes in horror. He knew instantly he'd been conned, and what he'd inadvertently let slip. "I-…that is…"

The Doctor turned to me without looking at Spock. "That's what I thought. There's not one scratch on his knuckles. He wasn't in a fight: he was _hit_. And only another Vulcan would have had the strength to injure him like that in one blow. I should submit a police report."

"I…It was my fault…_Please…"_ He was controlled but his eyes were huge, ashamed.

"Not so bossy now, are you, cowboy?"

"Give the kid a break, I'm begging you. He's already run away. I'm taking him in. Don't make it an interplanetary incident. There's _no chance_ this will ever happen again."

I don't know which would have been worse: Spock being dragged back to Vulcan to be reprogrammed on Mount Seleya or having a warrant out on Sarek for assault.

"Eighteen standard years old makes him a minor on Vulcan."

"But not on Earth. And he has dual citizenship. He wants to enter Star Fleet Academy in the fall. He'd be leaving Vulcan for school anyhow."

The doctor gave me a long, hard stare, finally relenting. "If I ever see him in here like this again I _will_ contact the police."

Later, finally, walking up the hill to the house he'd spoken again. "I did not run away. I left."

I rolled my eyes. "So you can explain why your mother was frantic with worry?"

"Oh. I shall call her—"

"Looking the way you do? The hell you will."

He pursed his lips, and nodded. "I suppose that is a logical… precaution." He looked down, then glanced sideways back at me. "She would be upset."

"You think? I'll let her know you're here, and fine." I would also be having a little talk with his father, but I didn't share that with him.

"Hmm."

"It's not a lie. You haven't been kidnapped by slavers or eaten by a le matya. That constitutes _fine."_ I snapped, thinking of how upset my poor daughter had been.

"Please do not be angry with me." Spock had responded a little thinly.

On the porch I turned and put my hands on his shoulders. "Kid. Do you have any idea how much I love you? How much your mother loves you? How much the entire Greyson clan loves you?" I studied his confused face. The answer was obviously _no._ He couldn't even make sense of the question. "Look. I don't know son, what happened between you and your father. But I'm here to help you. Maybe someday you'll want to talk about it, but right now just know you're in a safe place and loved. Okay?"

Spock chewed on his lower lip, struggling to understand. Sometimes he could be so densely Vulcan. "I understand…you are offering me refuge." He said cautiously.

"Yes." I gave his shoulders a squeeze and released him. "And tomorrow, after studying for your Academy entrance exams, you will start sailing lessons."

He turned and looked back at the sailboat and swallowed. Of course I'd taken him out before, but neither one of us had ever heard of a Vulcan sailor.

I've been staring at the Mandy Jane, in thought for so long that I didn't realize that Kirk has come to stand beside me.

"You okay?"

"Ever gone sailing?" I respond, a little too quickly.

Kirk grins. "No. I'm from Iowa. But I'm willing to try anything."

"Why does that not surprise me?" I say dryly, liking the kid a little more yet.

"I really enjoyed Rob's speedboat." Kirk studies me, thoughtfully. "But I hear sailing's an art."

Yes, he pushed the right button. "Well, there's a thing or two I can tell you about sailing."


	43. Ch 43 Repairs

Greyson's House, Seattle

Sarek's POV

In the living room of my father-in-law's house I look down at my son, asleep on the sofa like a human child. So human, to fall asleep in the living room; so exasperatingly human even after a fully Vulcan childhood; after eighteen years on Vulcan. Still human despite my relentless and unreasonable effort to mold you into something you never were.

It was logical that you left and never looked back. This comforts me, to know you followed logic, albeit a logic of your own making. I did not know, my son, it would be so difficult for me to accept the alien part of your nature.

My conversation with the doctor unsettles me still. I have never before spoken to anyone but Robert of the details of my loss of control with you. Not even with your mother. That I in fact physically injured you is unforgivable, unbearable. Unspeakable. I regret sharing this with Doctor McCoy, and it is evidence of my weakened state that I did so.

You sleep, finally. This is good. And it appears to be restful sleep at last. It appears the Healers have been of some assistance, and I am grateful they have helped ease your suffering.

I remove my cloak, and as carefully as I can spread it over you. You do not move as I do so; and continue to breathe evenly. I am reminded of putting you to bed as a child; the peaceful expression on your face as you slept. I am so grateful for you, for your life. For the man you have become. Such courage. And such passion. I accept this. I must accept you as you are.

I cannot say why I did not when you still lived with us, when you were still our child, and it is a most uncomfortable realization. Especially when I have dedicated my life to serving the Vulcan philosophy of IDIC, honoring infinite diversity in infinite combination. Especially when I loved my wife above my own life and you are a part of her. And you, my recklessly brave son…of course I have always loved you, too, but it is not the Vulcan way to give voice to such sentiments.

But also, I did not honor my wife and son's need to hear those sentiments.

I know this wounded both you and your mother. It was not logical for me to knowingly commit such an injury. Voicing my love for my family's benefit, fulfilling this harmless human need for verbalization, would have wounded only my pride and not my heart. It is ironic-and just punishment-that I long to speak my heart to Amanda now that she is lost to me forever.

Humans speak of heartbreak. If such a thing is possible, mine is surely both literally and figuratively damaged in such a way.

Oh, son. I wanted so much more for you, from you. Certainly more than logic would require. And you required more from me than I, bound by logic, would give. Amanda was right in this, although I refused to see it. I put pride before my own son. Eight years, four months and seven days of silence confirms the truth of her words.

McCoy beckons to me from the dining room. "We're ready."

But when I turn, it is Uhura whose eyes catch mine. She has been watching me observe my son. Oddly, her expression seems to be one of forgiveness. She does not know how undeserved such a sentiment is.

I seat myself at the table in a desultory fashion, saying nothing, following their directions. At length, I express my regrets to them both for damaging the heart monitor, although I had not intended that outcome; and my appreciation to Uhura for her expertise in repairing the device. I do not know if their responding silence is respectful, or if they simply do not know what to say to me. But the worry on their faces is plain.

McCoy kneels before me to once again unbutton Robert's loaned shirt, and begins to prepare my body for application of the monitor. Were Amanda here, she would speak for me how I detest this.

"Y'know, I saw you scratching at it before, so I picked up a different adhesive from the Embassy's clinic while I was down there. This should work better for you." McCoy applies a brown gel to the backing of the pad. "I have to touch you again. Are you ready sir?"

I sigh before I realize my control has lapsed again, and straighten. "As you will."

"I believe that would be my duty."

The Doctor, Uhura and I turn as one to see Spock standing in the archway to the room, holding my cloak in his hands. The Doctor stands immediately, and Spock hands my cloak to Uhura. McCoy then exchanges place with my son, instructing him on proper application of the heart monitor's relay device.

Spock appears more himself than I have seen yet, since the Narada. I am cautiously relieved at this.

He meets my eyes, the relay bandage held delicately in his hands. "I am prepared."

"As am I." I turn my face away from the slight tremble in his hands, and from the corner of my eye see him swallow as I do so. He applies the device and it is clear his mental shields are as firmly in place as mine. I sense nothing from his touch.

The Doctor nods his encouragement. "You've got a good touch there, Spock. Maybe you should have gone into the medical field."

"Hardly."

"If you can help Sarek keep the relay on it's is a lot better for everyone concerned. Your father can dress and bathe properly, and you can reapply the relay if he needs help." McCoy scowls a warning, "And maybe police him a little while you're at it. Keep him here until surgery's scheduled."

"It appears you are your father's keeper." I attempt humor.

Spock glances up at me, unreadable, as he fine-tunes the monitor. "Indeed." He responds very dryly, but does not risk calling it a role reversal. I can almost see him think it, though.

T'Zel stands in the doorway to the kitchen, her arms crossed. Behind her one of the Vulcan boys is setting plates out on the kitchen table. "Perhaps, Sarek, you should 'give sorrow words.' Your son should know you grieve for his mother."

I raise an eyebrow at her. No, my son would not question that I grieve for his mother. Surely he would not. "You would quote MacBeth to me?"

McCoy shakes his head, and mutters. "_Vulcans_ quoting Shakespeare."

Kirk at that moment enters the house, smelling of wood-smoke. He and Robert have been starting a fire down at the beachfront. He seems at least superficially recovered from the disaster, but purple bruises still deface his neck.

"Act four, scene three." Spock quotes, nodding once at Kirk in greeting, then continues to examine the relay adhered to my side. "'Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break.' Hardly a Vulcan sentiment, T'Zel."

Kirk approaches us. "Uh, the Admiral has sent me for something called marshmallow sticks?"

T'Zel gestures for Kirk to come to the kitchen, then her hands go to her hips. "Surak, then: 'He who forgives not condemns himself to entropy.'" She disappears into the kitchen with Kirk.

This moment is not as private as I would like. I find myself staring at my son's hands. I do not even know which wrist he broke.

McCoy catches my stare, and looks back and forth between my son and myself. "That wrist ever bother you?" McCoy says it lightly, as if it were a non-sequitor.

Spock shakes his head slightly, looking down at his right wrist and turning his hand. "On occasion, cold weather—" He stops suddenly, looking sharply up at McCoy—who raises his eyebrows—and back at me. His eyes widen slightly. "No. Never." He appends, holding my eyes. To my surprise he mirrors my contrition.

After a long silence, Spock and I unintentionally speak concurrently, the formal Vulcan apology: "The fault is mine."

Our eyebrows rise in tandem surprise; the intonation of our words was precisely the same.

Spock looks down, and after a moment I see the corners of his eyes tighten and his mouth twitches a little to one side. He raises his face, and I can see the humor dancing in his eyes. Yes, so very much like my beloved wife's resilience: his dark eyes are actually twinkling.

"Fascinating." Spock says, levelly.

Fascinating indeed, that he can find it humorous that we have each spent these many years blaming ourselves for the rift between us. Amanda would have found this a 'toss-up whether to laugh or cry.' Perhaps her son does also.

It is illogical that my son should blame himself for my failure of control.

At my silence, the quick humor and affection bleeds into a flash of vulnerability and subsequent disappointment. Again, the need I respond too slowly to, that I have always found so difficult to deal with. His disappointment quickly fades, and I realize he expected to be disappointed by my response.

With my telepathic controls still firmly in place, I brush Spock's cheek with the back of my index finger and he is most surprised at this non-Vulcan and unexpected gesture of affection. I nearly remind him how many years I have been married to his mother but find I cannot.

Kirk reappears in the doorway to the kitchen with T'Zel, his hands full of long wires, observing.

I stand. Delicious smells are wafting from the kitchen and I am beginning to feel ill. I am repelled by the idea of eating. I smooth the front of Robert's shirt, straightening it as best I can, trying to regain some dignity. "If you are done, Doctor, I shall retire to rest."

McCoy gestures that I am free to go. Spock and Uhura stare at me, too stunned, perhaps, to move or speak.

Without turning, I hesitate in the dining room's doorway. "'My grief lies all within.' "

"Ambassador…" T'Zel murmurs.

From the stairs I hear Spock continuing the quote, "…and these external manners of lament are merely shadows to the unseen grief that swells with silence in the tortured soul."

"Richard the Second, act four, scene one." Kirk adds softly.


	44. Ch 44 Uhura & Kirk Chat

Beachfront, Admiral Greyson's House

Seattle

X/refs: Ch 20 Selar; Ch 21 Interlude (re daydream)

Tech Ref: Vulcan Language Dictionary

A/N: Young stressed humans bantering. Minor language warning.

Uhura's POV

Grace, Spock and T'Zel are helping the kids with their dinner, and I've bailed out on them. I figure they can use a little Vulcan time just with each other. And I need some air, a break after helping both Spock's father and getting the Vulcan kids washed up and ready for dinner. I slip outside, taking a deep breath, and I look out across the Sound at the deepening evening light.

Cumulous clouds snag and crowd up against the North Cascades on the eastern horizon. Dusk tints the piling mounds of clouds shades of gold and pink, turning them into imaginary castles that leave cotton candy shreds of themselves on the dark forested slopes of the mountain range.

I look around for McCoy. He slipped out the back door a little while ago, but I don't see him anywhere. He seemed heartsick that little Selar had run to him and thrown her arms around his legs when she'd seen he was back. He'd given her wavy black hair a little caress.

"_Yokul, Selar-kam._" _Eat, little Selar. _The Doctor let slip that he knew enough Vulcan to be dangerous. He'd used the affectionate suffix '–kam'; but had he intended '-kan' for _child_?

T'Zel had given him a restrained Vulcan glare for again encouraging her affection. McCoy had gotten T'Zel's point. I know he doesn't want to do anything that could further hurt the little girl. He'd quickly slipped out, saying he wanted to check on the Healers.

I wander down the hill to the beachfront fire-pit. It's nothing fancy: only board benches and circled stones placed on the last bit of the lawn before it shears off to the waterfront cobbles at the dock. But the layers of carbon stains on the fire-ring's stones are proof it's been well used over the years.

Kirk looks relaxed: kicked back in a lawn chair and feeding the fire. From where I'd hidden it behind my back I hand him a bottle of beer and he looks more than a little surprised.

"Thanks." He says, politely, accepting it with a wary nod, looking like he thinks I might change my mind and bean him with it at the last second. He's partly right: it's pretty reasonable to expect him to suddenly say something obnoxious. I look away.

Admiral Greyson's in the sailboat just below, looking busy with something electronic in pieces on the deck and actually humming a little to himself.

I would have pigeon holed Kirk as the kind of guy that would build a big fire and stand way back—but he hasn't. Kirk's kept the fire modest and intimate, not wasteful-just big enough to draw you in.

"What brings you here?" I mean to be civil but it comes out sounding a bit sour. I cringe. He doesn't deserve that.

"Hell if I know. Sarek asked me to come. I came."

"And since when do you read Shakespeare?"

"Twenty questions?" Kirk looks up at me and I see he's worn out, too, but he quickly puts on his game face. "Didn't you know? In Iowa reading Shakespeare is a post-coital activity. Like chewing on hay stalks or getting beat up in bars."

"Sorry I asked." I smirk at him. I pick out one of the lawn chairs and move it a little closer to the fire. I grab one of the marshmallow sticks as I sink into the chair and with the long wire prod the coals. The radiant heat feels good. "I wouldn't think you'd have the energy to come back here after hogging all the celebrity."

He gives me a dark look, which surprises me, and I swallow.

"Don't remind me." He glowers.

"What? It looked to me like you were eating it up."

He breaks a handful of sticks and throws them on the fire. "They lied to me. Fleet's PR people led me to expect they were bringing all of you forward. It never happened."

He's actually angry about it, and it surprises me.

"Bunch of bull-shitters. I let myself be used." He leans back in his chair, frowning. "I won't be that naïve again."

And he gives me a startlingly sincere look. "I'm really sorry about how that went down, Lieutenant."

"I might accept your apology. I'll have to think about it." I'm not joking, and he sees it.

He looks grateful that I'm being honest, that I'm not just blathering out an unfelt 'everything's okay.' "I appreciate that. Truth is, I did like getting some positive reinforcement."

"That's more the man I know." I laugh.

"Hey." He flashes me a self-deprecating smile, then grows serious again. "So…how are _you_ doing?"

I roll my eyes and wave a hand.

"Yeah. I thought as much." He gives me an intense look. "You know we'd all be dead if it weren't for you being an anal-retentive workaholic like your boyfriend and picking up that Klingon transmission. All this. Gone too. Not just Vulcan."

My eyes water but I blink the emotion back. "Yeah. I know. It scares the shit out of me."

He nods, seeming relieved somehow-maybe that I do realize how important that information had been. But he'd understood the implications of the transmissions, he had known how to act on the information. That's what allowed the Enterprise survive while the rest of the responding fleet did not. That and poor Sulu, so to speak 'leaving the brake on' and delaying us those few extra minutes. Kirk and I fall silent, both poking absently at the fire for a while. There is no end to the 'what ifs' and 'if onlys', for any of us.

"How do _you_ think he's doing?"

Of course he means _Spock_. "Now that the Vulcan Healers have worked with him…better, I think. Before, not so well. I was…scared for him." Spock would hate for me to be talking about him behind his back like this, but I think Kirk's really trying to understand. I take a breath. "He's Vulcan, he's human. He doesn't know how he should be. Nobody does. It's always hard for him. This is just…worse."

"But his fleet records identify him as Vulcan, culturally Vulcan anyhow. Wasn't he raised there?"

"If that worked for him do you think he'd be in Star Fleet?"

I let Kirk chew on that for a minute.

"Did you ever stop to think he might be in Star Fleet because _we_ think of him as Vulcan? Most Vulcans don't: at least, those who don't know him. We think he's Vulcan. He thinks he's Vulcan. But on Vulcan he was considered human. Terran. An 'Earther.' "

Kirk stares at me in disbelief for a moment, then shakes his head. "Ouch."

"Yeah." I poke the coals a little harder until a swirl of sparks fly up. "F-in' yeah." I saw that nice little bit of Vulcan bigotry at work a handful of times. But I've seen humans behave horribly toward him, too, plenty of times. "He told me a little about how his classmates…he got the crap beat out of him as a kid, more times than his parents ever found out about, of course."

"Because he was human?"

"Because he dared to think he was Vulcan." I look away. "There's a reason he can fight like he did."

It's like seeing a switch flip: the empathy, the understanding. I hope this sinks through Kirk's thick skull and sticks, if they're going to have any hope of being able to work together.

I realize Kirk is giving me his power stare, a serious laser beam that looks straight into me. "Uhura…Why do you want to stay on the Enterprise?"

I don't answer right away; I just hold Kirk's level stare. "I want to be the best of the best, sir. That's the Enterprise." He keeps the intense stare going, but I'm easily up to it. Bring it on. "And now…we _had_ something there. I don't know what it was, but we were a team-something all of us became that was more than just the sum of us as individuals. You may not like the way I put this but…it's as if, together, we _became_ the Enterprise. We brought her to life."

Kirk nods, frowning into the fire and flexing his hands. "I felt that too."

His hands are square, muscular: strong working hands, still healing from all the fighting, badly chapped from the ridiculous allergic swelling. Stubborn determined hands.

He leans back and I realize he's shifting from 'the Captain' to Jim Kirk. I'm starting to see those as two sides to the Jim Kirk dichotomy.

"And being able to put it into words is the reason why you're our Communications Officer." He gives me a smile, a tight serious one full of appreciation.

Despite myself, a rosy little warm place opens in my chest.

Kirk looks up, like he's studying the stars all of a sudden. "So…if I offer you a little advice are you going to tear my tongue out and shove it down my throat?"

"I'm game to listen if you're willing to risk it." The wind shifts and I bat smoke from the little camp fire out of my face.

He pauses for a moment, those shocking blue eyes studying me now. "My father rode the Kelvin into the Narada and died. Sure, he was a hero. But I spent my life resenting that, being angry about it. Feeling disgusted with myself because I wished it had been anyone else's dad."

"I'm sorry. Truly. But why are you telling me this?"

"Spock did the same thing. He left you to shove that little ship down the Narada's throat. He expected to die, we both know it. At some point…you're going to realize you're pissed off as all hell about it." He does a little fire poking of his own. "Don't let it come between you two. Don't think it means you don't still love him. Hell, I never met my Dad and I love him. But I hate him, too, for doing that to me. And there's nothing logical about feeling that way."

I'm on my feet, suddenly shivering, my arms around my waist and facing away from Kirk.

"So…I'm here for you. It's totally confidential if you ever need to talk about it. And I swear: no creepy behavior. Scout's honor."

I almost smile at that. I give a nod to let him know I understood.

"Spock was a hero, too." I'm starting to feel like a voice in the wilderness, repeating this to anyone who'll listen.

"I know. I won't let Fleet forget. Promise." He tilts his beer at me, a dangerously determined look in his eyes.

I walk away. I have to. I wander down the beach face and out onto the dock to ask the Admiral if he'd like any help, and he flashes me a handsome smile as he holds out a hand to help me aboard.

I'm half surprised that Kirk doesn't move to follow. He continues to slouch in the lawn chair and watches the fire looking like he's deep in thought.

The Admiral has beautiful hands, full of character. Long fingered and rugged, but still dexterous as he delicately disassembles and reassembles the sailboat's comm. Fully trusting me, he hands me bits of its inner mechanisms to clean and calibrate. I find myself wondering what Spock's sensitive, refined hands will look like when they're old. Before long the Admiral and I have completed the job.

Over my shoulder as I've worked, I've watched T'Zel taking multiple trips back and forth from the main house to the boathouse. When I finally see her bring down a basket packed with water and snacks I jump out of the boat and run up the dock to see what she's up to. This basket looks uncomfortably familiar.

I cut her off at the door to the boathouse. "What are you doing?" I ask pointedly, suddenly feeling a little angry and invaded.

She looks blankly at the basket then back at me. "Some…unintended sharing of your visualization occurred…"

"Obviously."

"Come." She leads me upstairs into the boathouse. She's prepared a pallet near the window facing the Sound. Pillows and blankets are spread attractively over a futon. I can see T'Zel's basket holds neatly packed food and water. I can easily guess the other personal items it might include: those in my daydream. I feel a little mortified at the intrusion into my personal thoughts and it must show on my face.

"I have overstepped. It was unintentional, however, and…I apologize."

"T'Zel. Your intent is logical, but I can't stay."

"Did Kirk not explain? Oh." She sees I have no clue why she's doing this. "A temporary replacement has been found for you at Intel, a Vulcan elder who can translate all the Romulan dialects. I expected Kirk had by now explained this to you."

"Thanks, T'Zel but—"

"This was your Captain's idea, not mine, and this is the result of his efforts to allow you to stay for the night." She gestures at the pallet. "He referred to this as a gift of time for you and Spock. I have only assisted him in completing his mission."

Kirk? The hick? This Shakespeare literate, world saving, bar fighting, self absorbed… My Captain took the time to do this?

"Plan to stay." T'Zel requests simply. She sets the basket down and pulls a Bajoran glow orb from it. "You will find these create an intimate and yet safe light." She taps the small transparent ball lightly and a delicate candle-like glow begins to build in its center. "I will place them appropriately around the room for you."

"Don't presume what Spock wants—"

"I believe," T'Zel interrupts me, "the human phrase would be 'don't be ridiculous.' Of course he will want you to stay." Her fingertips brush the back of my hand. "Please. For him."

She is pleading, I realize. "There is no offense where none is taken." I say as coldly as I can, as is appropriate in Shi'Khari, and T'Zel relaxes, relieved.

I march back out to Kirk, and stand before him, my hands on my hips. "Why didn't you say anything?"

He only glances at me, then looks back at the fire, his face serious. "It wasn't about me."

Now who's the self-absorbed one? I frown at him for a long moment before sinking back beside the fire, clenching and unclenching my hands. "Well, for what it's worth…thank you."

Kirk wags his eyebrows at me. "You know what they say: once you've gone green—"

I raise a threatening fist, not entirely playfully. " You hick Shakespeare reading _pig f_—"

"Hey, hey now." He interrupts me with mock sincerity, holding up his hands in surrender. "Be careful what you say. You'll make the rest of the barnyard animals jealous."

I laugh and fall back into my chair. I laugh until tears start running down my face. Until there's no more laughter and the tears keep coming. "_F—_ Nero. F- him for what he's done to Vulcan, to Spock. Oh, shit. Shit. Just f— him."

"All the way to hell, Lieutenant. All the way to hell."


	45. Ch 45 Healers Recover

Healers Recover

X/ref: Ch 9 Skaal

McCoy's POV

I stop for a minute on the back porch to wipe the dang moisture from my eyes. That little Selar just rips my heart out. I don't know what I'm doing to encourage her, but she's obviously taken a liking to me. I'm not so heartless that I can just push away a little child who hugs me, needs me like that. So much like my little girl Joanna, to come running. But I'm no kind of a support system for a child. According to the Court and Joanna's mother, not even my own.

I look around at the Greyson property: the lawn, the trees, the garden. I'm curious about these Healers. I'm sorry that I missed observing their work, especially since Spock seems better, a bit more grounded. That would have been interesting. But I have a professional peer responsibility to make sure the Healers are all right.

I head for the trees on nothing more than a hunch. Well, if I don't see them on the lawn, short of swimming for it there's not much of anywhere else to look. I think I see a break in the shrubbery and follow the path up into some huge cedars and for a moment I forget my task. I just look up and up the shaggy gray lichen-dressed bellies of the cedar trunks rising into the unbroken canopy way above. It's swamp-cooler cool: moist and smelling of rich humus. The ferns reach as high as my head.

Once my eyes adjust to the filtered light I see that cranky young Vulcan healer just up the trail, leaning into one of the tree trunks. Now if I can just remember his name…

He seems out of it, leaning his forehead into the tree like he's communicating with it. "Hey, ah, your name's Skaal, isn't it?"

When he doesn't respond I give him a quick scan-over and the tool confirms what I already know: the kid's not catatonic, he's in that weird Vulcan mental shock. This is something I've had a little recent practice with at the Embassy, and I pop my hypo into his buttock with a jolt of 'McCoy's special sauce.'

The kid responds with a little grunt of pain and rolling forward against the tree, turning just enough to give me a dirty look. "…Permission not granted."

"Tough." My retort doesn't compute with him at all, I can tell. Well, there's no reason to worry him. "I hit you with a support compound that was cleared at your Embassy for routine distribution as I see fit. So where's your partner?"

He turns a little more and I watch his eyes for the answer.

"She required I release to her…required my pain, too…" He whispers. "I told Spock…I _told_ him…we would suffer from his memories…"

Well, Spock was pretty much the last man off Vulcan. If they watched their home planet swallow itself through his eyes, no wonder they're in shock. "Just stay here. I'll be back for you."

I follow the kid's line of site, on up the trail, and run forward. It smells weird, suddenly, like ozone. When I see her…something inhuman assaults my senses. She stands simply, eyes closed, her face uplifted and her hands held palms open and away from her sides. But from her palms to the earth…something I can't explain—light, energy, electromagnetism? Some kind of pulsing sienna-orange _charge_ is shining from her palms to the ground…and fine blue electromagnetic waves seem to pulse around her, flickering upward from the mosses like cold blue flames.

This is way out of my league. I gasp.

And as I do the light show just melts away, like smoke. The Healer turns toward me and her eyes open. For an instant she stares at me blankly, then soundlessly collapses face forward into the ferns.

I rush forward. Oh, the hell with protocol, I lift her in my arms. Ah, jeez, for a slip of a woman she's Vulcan dense and heavy as a human male, but I stay standing and stagger back down the path with her, yelling at Skaal to follow me as I go.

I see a chaise lounge on the back patio at the house and head there—a good spot, private—and stagger up the grassy slope with her. She's limp as a noodle, but not unconscious. She looks at me when she can focus through narrowed eyes.

"Healer Skaal, what's her name?" I ask, laying her down and trying to arrange her into some form of comfort. I brush off the forest debris sticking to her hair, her robe.

"T'Qilah. Healer T'Qilah." He can barely speak.

I run my pocket scanner over her for a quick reading. "Either tell me something useful or I'm sticking her with the meds, too."

He just stares at me like a goddamned cow that needs to be put down. I flip the hypo out of my pocket like a six shooter and dose the older woman in the hip. Pain's usually a good litmus test: I can read a lot from a good flinch. Her eyes don't so much as flicker and I know it hurts. Not good. "Sorry girl."

Her head rolls from where it had lolled and she struggles to focus on me.

"One of you tell me. What's going on?"

Skaal kneels beside us, but I'm the one he stares at. "You do not feel her pain."

"Far as I can tell she doesn't feel her pain either." I glance at the younger healer, but his look of amazement stops me in my tracks.

"You are a Healer, too, but you are psi null."

"Your point?" I have my hand on her forearm, manually taking her pulse; it's fast and thready, good.

Skaal shakes his head. "For a healer…this must either be a great blessing or a frustrating curse."

I bite back the retort that bubbles up, and pinch the bridge of my nose between two fingers, willing myself to listen. "What do you feel from her, Healer Skaal?"

The young man turns back to the Vulcan woman, but after only a few seconds closes his eyes and backs away. "Great pain, the sorrow of our world dying." He sits in a lawn chair and puts his head in his hands for a moment, then looks up at me. "In the meld... healing has energetic outcomes…which must be released…on Vulcan, Healers returned to certain places, Seleya, Gol…to release, essentially, medical waste. The planet's fires received and consumed this energy." He was silent for a long moment before shaking his head. "But now…"

"Energy is neither created nor destroyed?" I struggle to understand.

"A child's first lesson. Yes. What she carries must be released."

This, at least was close to something I could understand, a risk for all healers: burn out. Was she trying to return the energy to this planet the way they normally did on Vulcan? "Did it work?"

"She remains…burdened."

The woman's hand weakly clutches at my sleeve and she gives me a slight nod. "Yes, somewhat…" She whispers. "Gaia… most generous…mother."

Gaia? No, she couldn't possibly mean she communicated with the earth itself…could she?

The Healer's eyes burn into mine. Through parched lips, the healer continues. "You yourself…call her _mother._"

Mother earth…

But Vulcan—Vulcan…was a planet of fire. She's fighting fire with fire…I don't know how, but I suddenly _know_ what she's doing wrong. "Healer. Life on earth is all about _water."_ It's inspiration, intuition. I'm reminded of the immersion baptisms of my Southern youth, the sense of transformation: of the ritual of washing your sins away to be born anew. No, dunking Vulcans in the frigid water of the Sound would be a good way to kill them quickly with hypothermia…but…

The Admiral has one fine hot tub set up here behind his house, all steaming and ready to go. I bet he wouldn't mind sharing it. I turn back to the Healers and grin. "I've got an idea. Stay here and I'll be back with some towels."

Grace helps me out inside, and I quickly return with a basket not only of towels but also with wineglasses, water and food. And the Admiral's stash of Romulan ale. Grace had known exactly where that was hidden.

At first I'm worried to see Healer T'Qilah gone from the chaise lounge, but then I realize I hear the dull bubbling roar of the spa jets. When I round the privacy screen, much to my surprise both Vulcans are already in the hot tub: naked as jaybirds, their clothes neatly piled to one side.

I swallow. I'm a professional. I will not let my eyes pop out of my head in surprise.

The woman already looks much clearer eyed. "We acted on your unspoken recommendation, Doctor McCoy."

"Indeed." Skaal echoes.

"Your prescription is most effective." She leans her head back against the side of the pool and closes her eyes: clearly finding the bubbling heated water soothing, finding the release she required.

"I trust you do not find the human body offensive?" I put the basket down and pull my shirt off over my head. There are _three _healers here that can use a little recuperation.

"Only malodorous." Skaal murmurs.

Okay, fine. I'll use the outdoor shower first, the cedar slatted one tucked into a nearby corner with a river rock floor. Oh, the ground is wet already. What do you know: they beat me to it.

When I'm done I dry my hands and pour drinking water into the crystal, then hand full glasses to each of the Vulcans to make sure they hydrate well. First things first, after all. Then we'll have food. Then ale.

I look up at the great cedar boughs arching over us, sifting the last rays of light as they sway. Hell, who knows? The three of us may all soon be 'beneath the bough', reciting poetry and singing, if we're capable of sharing a hot tub.

A/N: Gibran, _The Prophet_: '…Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough, a book of verse, a flask of wine and thou, beside me singing in the wilderness; and wilderness is paradise enow.' A nod to my Dad, who loved this.


	46. Ch 46 Sarek & Spock  Confessions

Confessions

Upstairs, Greyson House, Seattle

Spock's

A/N: With thanks to reviewer Teaberryva for her perceptive discussions and suggestions: both in general, and particularly regarding this chapter where I directly used some of her ideas.

With the Vulcan children downstairs and most of the adults outside, it is surprisingly quiet upstairs. Private. I am sure my father is greatly appreciating this moment of peace.

I hesitate at the door to my father's room. It is open. He is, of course, not resting but busy at his desk monitoring communications and answering his electronic mail. He glances up at me and quickly pauses all the devices, giving me his full attention.

"Yes, Spock."

"The neighbor called again. The honor guard will be here shortly."

My father studies my face as if he is waiting for something more. I do not know what it is he seeks.

"I will wear my ceremonial robe, then."

"It would seem appropriate." The room is silent with all the equipment paused, but the silence between us is deeper.

I start to turn to go, but my father speaks my name and I turn back to him. He hesitates, then holds out his hand. "Give me your right wrist."

I do not wish to do this. I cannot.

And he speaks again, more softly, in a tone I haven't heard since I was a very small child. "Son. Please come."

How can I refuse? I close my eyes for a moment, strengthening my shields before I step forward to my father and hold out my right arm, palm up toward him. "There is nothing to see."

His touch is again as shielded as mine as he takes my arm and turns it carefully, looking over my wrist, touching the faint scars where the surgeon repaired torn tendons and reset bones.

"I did not realize at the time that you had fallen so badly."

"I failed to utilize the training I had received in the martial arts."

He covers my wrist with his left hand. "I am apologizing, Spock. Not criticizing you."

I swallow. "There is no offense where none is taken."

"Your logic is flawed. In this case, there was offense, whether you take it or not." My father, my Vulcan father, actually gives my wrist a gentle pat as he holds it between his hands. "I offended—"

"My words were inexcusable." I shake my head. "Inexcusable."

"Mere words, my son." He gives my arm another gentle pat. "I understand you actually wore a cast for a while."

"I was able to develop tolerable calibrations for the bone regeneration device when I was at the Academy."

"I trust you have had no call to use them?"

"No. But they are in my medical files for reference."

"A wise precaution."

He releases my wrist and I clasp my hands behind my back, the sensation of my father's hands around my wrist still vivid.

"I would touch your face where I struck you." Sarek requests quietly. "I will not do so without your permission."

I give a curt nod and close my eyes, controlling, then open them to meet Sarek's gaze. Much as I try to control my reaction, I still flinch slightly as he reaches toward me. I don't miss the shadow that crosses his face as I do so.

His fingertips reach up and barely touch me, sliding across my left cheekbone. "I am sorry, Spock. So deeply sorry for striking you."

I am unprepared for the intensity of the emotion that floods me and I turn away. I recall the outrage I had felt toward the VSA Chairman, how I had taken it out on Sarek; the shame of knowingly pushing my father to his breaking point, past his breaking point. I had shouted that he had never defended mother's honor: that my classmates called mother a whore because he treated her like one. He lashed at me instantly, a flash. He'd hit me so hard that I flew across the room, landing badly backward on my wrist. Then the terrible look on his face when he realized that he'd struck me. And then the pain had come crashing in. Of course I had not made a sound.

Worse, I had…felt…so deeply, so personally _rejected._ I realize now it had not been Sarek who had provoked this emotion in me, it had been the VSA board. I had worked _so hard _to prove myself…and then to be insulted…for _what_ I was, for what _mother_ was.

I focus on controlling my breathing. "You are wrong. The fault was mine."

"So it was Kirk's fault that you assaulted him."

"_No!_ The fault was mine. Entirely mine." I whirl around to stare at Sarek. How could he suggest otherwise-?

"Then we understand one another." He stands and takes a step toward me and there is a long silence as he waits for me to understand, and finally I see the parallel. "I attempted to submit myself for prosecution, Spock."

I close my eyes at the revelation. I had not known this. My father's life would have been ruined and all the peace that he had worked for discredited; all that he has since achieved, lost. I can project what the resulting newsvid headlines would have been: _Vulcan's Ambassador of Peace Assaults Son._ The enemies of peace would have had a field day. How foolish that I had not considered the logical consequences before venting my disappointment with the VSA on my father. How fortunate that Grandfather Greyson kept me well out of the public eye after I suffered the consequences of that indiscretion.

"The impact of my action would have had far reaching and highly negative consequences. As a result, the Embassy objected. Our family legal advisor objected. T'Pau objected."

I realize with discomfort that it had been unquestioned on Vulcan that Sarek, even though it was wrong by any measure to do so, had acted with _sufficient cause._

"Robert…was incensed that I had hurt you, but he too objected that pursuing my course would destroy not only our family but would damage relations between Earth and Vulcan. It was wrong to deny you justice. But it became clear that it was necessary that I not proceed. In the end it was agreed that releasing you to your own path was the best course of action for all concerned."

Here, then, was the reason why he did not protest my matriculation into Star Fleet Academy: the reason T'Pau had remained silent. I had wondered. "The good of the many..."

"Or the one. In the end, I could not bear what it would have done to your mother. Nor was I willing to lose her."

While I nod to indicate that I heard, I am not sure I understand. But I put a fist to my mouth, controlling, afraid of the emotion tugging at my throat and the all too great possibility that I might make some humiliating sound.

"When I married your mother, I had promised Robert I would never harm her. After I hurt you, he felt obligated to ask me to reiterate that promise." Sarek's eyes close for a moment and for that moment he does not hide his grief from me: both grief for his breach of trust with me and with Robert, and more deeply for losing mother.

"Spock. It is likely…Star Fleet will decide, in light of our great loss, to see your assault of Kirk in the same way, as a political inconvenience. Star Fleet will justify their decision to overlook the attack by the circumstances that compromised you. But your moral responsibility for your action is no more absolved than mine."

And what would he think if he knew of the war crime that I committed? Of the Romulans I murdered?

My face must have betrayed my thoughts, because Sarek's face softens. "I do not doubt fighting the Narada entailed…difficult choices, Spock. I will neither reject nor judge you for them. The circumstances were extraordinary and not of your choosing. But Kirk is another situation."

"And Kirk is here."

"Yes. An opportunity."

"I shall follow my father's example."

Sarek raises an eyebrow, a question-but teasing-and it is…delightful, connecting. His intentional self-deprecation is clearly the extension of an olive branch in his effort to defuse the tension between us. I am reminded of the lighter, more bantering relationship we had long ago, before my sister died.

"No, I shall not strike Kirk. I shall apologize. Although he makes it difficult at times to conform to Surak's precepts."

"He is an undisciplined yet remarkably talented human. Since you intend to continue to work together, it is my hope that this additional personal exposure will encourage him to value your life as much as I do."

I study my father: recently widowed, struggling with his health, standing in borrowed clothes in a small room on a planet distant from his home, trying to make amends with his estranged son. At first a wave of compassion rolls through me, and then something else, something very private, very personal I thought I have felt only for my mother and Nyota. Is it possible that I may love my father as well?

Impulsively I hold my hands out to Sarek in the Vulcan way, offering the familial embrace. I loosen my mental shields, but do not lower them, probably foolishly attempting to share this. He will most likely disapprove of my weakness.

He places his palms against mine briefly and his eyes visibly warm. For an instant I feel a powerful emotion in return. I look up into my father's eyes, surprised.

And he seems puzzled by my surprise. "Spock. Son. I love you."

He shakes his head a little, as if he can't believe I don't know this.

I am so shocked I just blink at him, speechless.

My father glances outside, out the window.

"Time to prepare is growing short. Perhaps you too, son, should prepare for the honor guard. If you lack formal wear…you could present an illusion of it with my cloak." He reaches for his cloak, lying across the foot of the bed, and slips the black cloth around my shoulders. "Under my wing still, it appears."

I nod, rattled and clutching the cloak as I start to leave. But I turn around and words spill out, against my better judgement. "I will never hear you say it again, will I."

"No. It is not our culture to do so." He pauses a beat and just before my eyes fall he adds, "Unless…"

And my gaze returns to his.

"Unless you ask to hear it said. Or need to. Unless I am afraid for you. Unless I am rejoicing with you. Unless _I_ need to say it to you. And if I forget or neglect to speak the words, you are to remember they are _always_ within my heart for you."


	47. Ch 47 Neighbors

Admiral Greyson's House

In the Kitchen

A/N: More with Grace, for Teaberryva.

Thomasson's used with permission from NotesfromaClassroom. (If Grace is Chris's grandmother, that makes him Spock's second cousin here, though.)

Grace's POV

T'Zel puts down her serving spoon and hustles to answer the doorbell, promptly returning to the kitchen with a new guest.

"Chairman Tom!" I shout and run around the table-startling the little Vulcans sitting around the kitchen table picking at their food—and holding my hand out. He grasps it firmly with a warm smile. He's another human that benefited from Sarek's largess and the services of Shi'Kahr's medical center.

"I'm still _Ernie, _please._" _He circles my hand with both of his for a moment before letting go, and gives me a warm smile. "Just because the Tribe elected me to Council doesn't make me go and get pretentious all of a sudden." He takes a breath, looking me over. "It's so good to see you. How are you, Grace?"

"I'm great. You look great. Look at you, fit as a cadet. And in your Fleet dress uniform, too." We just enjoy looking into each other's eyes for a long moment, tied even more closely by having both spent time in Shi'Kahr at what had been the Federation's finest burn treatment center. Now gone, oh, _gone_. "Retirement suits you."

"I'll take a little flattery any day, especially from a pretty Greyson girl." He winks at me, teasing. The long braid falling down his back has gone almost entirely gray, but his shoulders are still broad and his arms look as strong as ever.

"I've been a Thomasson for fifty years, Ernie." I chide gently, but I may be blushing a little, like the girl I haven't been for an even greater number of years. "Let me introduce our young guests." And I go around the table introducing the Vulcan children by name to him. "Our neighbor Mr. Toms is Chairman of the Confederated Tribes of the San Juan Islands. He is also a retired Star Fleet Captain."

"U.S.S. Constellation." He gives a slight bow. "And leader of the San Juan Tribe's canoe family, too. From the 'stars to the oars'." He smiles a bit to see if we get his joke and I smile a little and T'Zel and I both nod back. "Some of the neighboring Tribes' canoe families said they'd try to make it over, too. Lummi said for sure." He pulls at the bottom of the shiny dress gold uniform to straighten it, the breast of it heavy with medals and ribbons. "I met Captain Kirk down by the fire. Nice kid. Respectful. I put him to work helping the drummers set up. Spock's here still isn't he, Gracie? Sarek?"

Gracie. Makes me feel home again to hear that. "Spock's here. I sent him upstairs to let Sarek know your honor guard was almost ready."

T'Zel starts getting the children up from the dinner table, directing them in Shi'Kahri. "Upstairs now. Into your cloaks again. We will be outdoors for approximately ninety minutes and it will be even colder. Double your socks if you can fit them into your shoes."

Ernie's face grows serious as he scans the table and the food that has barely been touched. He lowers his voice. "Didn't eat much, did they." He searches my face. "How are your big Vulcan boys holding up?"

My eyes meet T'Zel's and come back to Ernie, and I speak as quietly. "Better than we would be doing in their shoes."

He nods. "Well, if there's anything Esther and I can do, just ask. We're just through the trees."

A little girl I don't know has followed Ernie in, and she enters the kitchen shyly. "Grandpa?"

I smile broadly at Ernie. "And who is this?" She looks to be ten or eleven, coltish with bright green eyes contrasting with her warm brown skin, a sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

"Grace, T'Zel, meet my granddaughter, Denise."

And we exchange salutations.

"Grandpa, Gram sent me to let you know the dancers will be ready in about fifteen minutes."

"On with you." In Shi'Kahri, T'Zel shoos the Vulcan children past the girl, who seems to take the Vulcan guests in stride.

The Vulcan children slide by her, repeating their names to the girl as they pass by. Except for Sel, the last, who hesitates in the doorway, staring.

The girl smiles a little to him and says her name again. "Denise."

"Sel."

"Denise."

He cocks his head, looking analytical.

"I am Sel." He says in careful standard.

"Yeah, got it. I'm Denise. You're Sel."

"T'Niise. It is…fitting. A Vulcan name."

Her smile broadens, and she pushes her silky black hair behind her ears. "Thanks."

"Your ears are _round_." He blurts.

She chuckles in response and looks at her grandfather, who puts a hand on her shoulder. Sel's eyes narrow at her laughter.

"He's cute." She smiles to Ernie.

Sel's eye's widen, then he looks down at the floor. When he looks back up his face is glowing. Oh, no, I think. Not another generation of star crossed love…

I hear T'Zel sigh. She hasn't missed the transformation. "Sel, go. The others have left you behind."

He reluctantly backs his way through the dining room, keeping eye contact with the girl, until he bumps into the far wall. Then he turns and hurries off after the other children.

"Hook line and—" I start to say dryly, but Ernie cuts me off with a raised hand.

"Ladies." Captain Toms, retired Captain of the U.S.S Constellation and Chairman of his Tribe, straightens and speaks gently, chastening T'Zel and me. "Young love is still love." He turns to the little girl with a tender smile. "Run back and tell Grandma Esther and the dancers that it looks like we'll be ready on time."

The girl nods and takes off.

Just as she heads out the door, my brother comes bustling back in, rushing to the kitchen wall comm. "If Robbie isn't back soon with that grandson of yours, Grace, he's going to make a mess of things for the canoe families."

The comm link to the boat crackles and whines a bit before making a poor connection. "Rob to Greyson base?" Crackles through, almost indecipherable.

"Greyson base to Rob."

"I'm just rounding the point. ETA about five…" A pause, then, "Chris …but Anna and…. couldn't make it. In…."

Robert punches the controls up on the comm but it doesn't help. "Better be sure it's five minutes. Base out." He turns to us. "At least it's high tide. That ought to work in everyone's favor."

My grandson Chris is on his way with Robbie? Wonderful, he's going to make it here after all. I know Chris and Spock had some kind of falling out a few years back, but they used to be so close as kids. I hope this means they're making amends.

"Well, now that Robert's here, if you have a moment," Ernie continues, looking the three of us over, hands on his hips looking every bit the Star Fleet Captain, "let's go over the logistics for the honor guard's presentation."


	48. Ch 48 Post Confession

Admiral Greyson's House

Hallway behind the kitchen

Uhura's POV

I look into the mirror to see just how bad I look. Not as bad as I feel, but a mix of dirt and makeup streaks my face.

I slipped into the house through the door to the garden, hoping to clean up before anyone saw the way I look and got alarmed. I won't add to the burden everyone here is already carrying.

"Just stop it." I scold my own face in the mirror. "Release. Move on."

I start the water running by turning the old-fashioned chrome handles and they give a loud squeak as I do so. The water runs cold, I have to wait for it to warm up. I have to be patient, and in my irritation with myself for getting emotional I'm not feeling very patient.

In the kitchen just down the hall I hear Spock enter, his baritone voice confirming with T'Zel that he's spoken with his father. And he says he's looking for me.

And _oh_, the way just the sound of his voice sends a thrill through me. A wave of warmth burns from the pit of my stomach to my throat at the sound. I look into the mirror above the sink and my heart falls. Control? Any? I remind myself again of the simplest, most infantile Vulcan lesson on emotional control: release, move on.

Spock comes to the open door of the bathroom and leans against the doorway, silently watching me as I wet the washcloth in the hot water, squeeze it out. With the cloth still steaming I start to dab at my face.

"Tear marks." A crease appears between his eyebrows. "What has happened? Did Kirk say something inappropriate to you?"

"No. Nothing like that. Just…thinking…" He raises an eyebrow at me and I look back to my reflection, start to wipe my face clean. "…about the Narada. Sorry."

"I see." He studies me, the motions of my hands, then reaches for the washcloth, gently turning me to face him. "Allow me."

And he turns my face upward. With the fingertips of his left hand beneath my chin, he gently begins to wipe the tearstains from my face: methodically, carefully turning the washcloth as he proceeds.

"You asked me not long ago what I needed." His voice is very soft, as he studies my face and wipes the evidence of my tears away.

"Yes." He brushes his thumb across the right side of my face, a caress, as he evaluates his handiwork.

"And the offer still stands?"

"Anything." I whisper. He continues until the left side of my face is cleaned to his satisfaction, then places the washcloth on the edge of the sink and bends to kiss my cheek chastely.

"I spoke with my father."

'Spoke' with a capital 'S'—a real conversation for once, clearly; the kind that touched some old wounds. "You okay?"

He stares into my eyes, and I can sense his struggle. "It was…positive."

I search his face for more, but whatever was discussed is clearly not something he's ready to speak about. "It's okay. Tell me about it later." Or never, given the pain in his eyes. "Whatever you need, baby."

His hands dangle awkwardly at his side as he studies the floor. "If you would not mind…"

And suddenly I know what he needs, something so terribly difficult for him to ask for, and something I know he can long for with desperation. All it takes is for me to lift my arms to him and he slides into me so suddenly that I lose my balance and we stagger backward a hand's span into the wall. His arms wrap around me, and he buries his face into the soft flesh of my neck.

Yes, baby, I know. You need me to hold you.


	49. Ch 49 James Kirk & Chris

Jim Kirk & Chris

Admiral Greyson's House

On the dock

Kirk's POV

A/N: Chris used with permission from NotefromaClassroom.

In the distance I see Rob's boat returning, so I stand with a nod to the drummers getting set up by the fire. I'm not much help to them anyhow, so I head down to the dock, ready to catch the throw-line or haul some more packages.

At the entrance to the cove, Rob powers down and carefully works his way to the dock. "Head's up," he calls throwing the line to me.

I help him gently pull the boat up to the dock behind the little sailboat. A tall sandy-haired guy jumps out to help and he looks to be about my age. He sticks his hand out to me, and I take it. He's got a good handshake, firm and honest; and he has inquisitive dark eyes that remind me a lot of Spock's.

"Hey! Jim Kirk, ah _Captain_ Kirk?" He says, tying the boat down.

"One and the same. But, call me Jim."

The guy glances down and shyly back up with an expression I'm starting to recognize as hero worship. It's weird and hard to accept, but disrespectful not to. I keep my sigh inward and am glad when he moves on.

"I'm Spock's cousin, Chris Thomasson."

"_Doctor_ Thomasson." Rob amends and makes a face, "but a shrink, not the useful kind."

"Oh, thanks, Rob." The younger man rolls his eyes, but smiles.

"Another cousin." How different this extended and close family is from my fractured one.

Rob picks up the box of groceries he'd taken out of the boat and set on the dock. "Chris was always the closest one to Spock. He and his sisters. Spock had some extended stays with Chris's family."

"I'd appreciate it, Chris, if you'd share any tips you have on how to get along better with the guy." Seriously. _Please._

Chris looks away, trying not to show his sudden discomfort. "I…ahh…"

Rob looks from me to Chris, making the 'uh-oh' face. "I…thought you two had gotten over C'rina…"

"Not entirely, but I'm trying." Chris responds to his cousin in a code beyond my understanding. At any rate, I gather that Spock might have had some off moments with his family. Welcome to the club.

Rob hold's Chris's eyes, then shrugs. "I'm going to take this up to the house and let them know we're here."

"Tell Gram I've got Captain Kirk cornered at the dock."

"Sure." Rob heads off up the hill.

"Hope you don't mind." Chris adds wistfully, hoping for more news, but not wanting to pry.

I motion to the wooden storage box on the dock that holds life jackets. It's about the height of a bench and I decide to use it for one. "I'd like to tell you what Spock did to save the Earth."

And Spock's cousin sits down, too, leaning forward, eager for my tale. Everyone knows the details of the terrible battle at Vulcan tjat resulted in the loss of that planet and so many ships. But not so well known is how Spock flew the little Vulcan ship and saved the Earth from the Narada's drill; how he pulled Nero into a chase, then dove directly into the Romulan ship. By the end of my story, Chris's face has paled and his mouth has twisted in a grimace. I apologize for upsetting him, and he rubs the back of his neck and runs his hand through his hair.

"I can't even imagine Earth coming so close to destruction. Does anyone really understand?"

"Well…Spock does. I do. All the Enterprise crew. Probably Intel and most of Fleet Command and by now the UFP Council."

"But not the public as a whole." Chris looks thoughtful. "Heroism would be…irrelevant to Spock. His actions would have been the logical ones."

"Maybe." I say cryptically. I disagree. I think he took after the Narada with a blood-thirst for vengeance. Whatever works. And it did.

Chris looks away. "Spock and I…we've had our ups and downs. I had a girl and we had...a problem over her. She was Orion and Romulan. Very beautiful, very smart." He turns back to me. "Well, she still is, but that's…over. All of it."

Orion. I can't help but think of Gaila, but I stay silent.

"Spock's…more than my cousin, Captain. I think of him as my brother. And I love him like my brother. It tears me up to think of the risk he took…"

What I wouldn't give to have Sam…no, no sense going there. "I promised his girl I'd make sure Spock gets the credit he deserves."

"His girl?" Chris's eyes widen. "You don't mean that ice queen T'Pring? Not that I don't hope she survived."

T'Pring? That's a new one to me. Plus he had a problem with his cousin over a woman? I'm starting to suspect Spock gets around more than I do. My reputation is looking entirely overblown. "Her name's Uhura. She's here." I glance around to make sure she's not within earshot. "And one very hot chick. But she'd probably hurt me if she knew I called her a 'hot chick'," I grin at Chris.

But before he can say more, Grace has hustled down the hill and has thrown her arms around Chris's neck. "Hey, Grandma, let me come up for oxygen!"

"Oh, baby boy." Grace steps back to admire Chris, looking him over from head to toe.

I realize with a start that her hand is mangled, burned. I see the burn scars continuing up her arm into her sleeve and I swallow, reminded suddenly of Tarsus. Damn but it never leaves me. I wonder what happened to Grace.

"Oh, Gram, I was just here for the memorial. It's not like you haven't seen me recently."

"I never know when I'll see you next, though." She turns to me. "And Captain Kirk?"

"Ma'am." I give her a slight courtly bow.

"The Honor Guard's presentation should start shortly."

"Chairman Toms asked me to come forward when he calls for me." The guy had spoken to me before going up to the house.

Grace leans up against the end of the box, slipping her shoes off. Even her feet are scarred. "Oh, good. If you boys don't mind I'll just stay right here on the dock with you for the event. I think Uhura's on her way down, too."

She slips down to sit on the edge of the dock, her toes tapping on the surface of the cold sea water, making tiny concentric circles that spread and intersect.


	50. Ch 50 Raven's View

Raven's view

Above Admiral Greyson's House

As I practice my aerial acrobatic-_summersault while holding a twig_-the sea catches my eye. I dive, pulling into a rising thermal, hovering abruptly, and letting my twig fall as I rise.

Below the two-leggeds in their great long cedar canoes converge toward my ancient home like so many salmon questing toward their freshwater birth stream. Interesting. From all directions they come, toward the island where I live above the two-legged's lodges.

These canoe families are the children of the Ancient Ones. They are plying the deep water in traditional long cedar canoes, each canoe holding many two leggeds: two and two and two in each and more. The black bellies of the canoes cut through the water to the rowing songs of the two-leggeds, the prows of the many canoes rising high and proud as the beaks of cormorants coming in to land on the sea's face. The sticks the two-leggeds wield to push the craft through the water move in synchrony like a dance. Or a water bug! I caw in laughter at my own joke and wheel out of the thermal. I dive toward my island, streaking along above the waves intentionally spooking a few cormorants as I go.

Cormorants. Those people are half fish. I wonder what it would be like to see the mysteries below the great wet mirror. But I would not want to die an Orca snack. No, no, no, I caw again at the thought, landing on the dock at my island, shuddering with a ruffle of my feathers.

I strut up the dock like the prince I am, investigating. There are odd goings on here, change.

The two-leggeds by the fire don't move, but their eyes shift to me, noting my presence and looking away. I don't know them, but they seem harmless enough: drummers and fire watchers. Perhaps they respect that it was my ancestor who took pity on the suffering of the two-leggeds and brought them the gift of fire; poor ill-adapted creatures that they are.

Two fledglings exit the two-legged's lodge and wander about, looking most attractive in their black wing covers. I hop closer, investigating.

"T'Pem, look." One fledgling calls to the other and I take another hop closer. Fox-eared fledglings! It has been many, many years. In my father's time the first fox-eared two-legged came to this house, and then returned after many winters with the lodge's daughter and first one and then another fox- eared fledgling. They would visit, but rarely. Their lodge must have been many islands away.

The second fledgling before me edges closer, peering at me analytically. "This bird is a _raven_. It seems very…conscious. Intelligent."

I tilt my head and brush my beak across the grass, miffed. I open my wings slightly and caw at the mite.

The second fledgling squats down to my level. "I am T'Pel."

"Pel-l-l-l." I gurgle back at her. Intelligent, indeed. I turn and stalk away as she gasps and looks at the other fledgling.

More two-leggeds exit the lodge and I half leap-half flutter up to the deck railing. Two and two more fledglings!

I bend low at the lodge, facing the door and cawing my congratulations on successful brooding to the dominant elder two-legged and his daughter's mate. These are the first new fox-eared fledglings at this lodge since the last little one disappeared.

And now so many fledglings at once! A challenge to feed and protect, but Tall White Hair's flock will be strong!

Tall White Hair comes outside at my noise and smiles. "Not sure you like this, eh, Raven? Too much company for you?"

Following him out, Grey Braid, the elder from the lodge on the other side of these trees speaks. "Naw. Just too much change for him. Raven doesn't like change."

I take off for the lower branches of a nearby tree. I turn and scold them for good measure, then fall silent, watching.

The lodge is emptying its flock of two-leggeds, but without joy. Strange. The two-leggeds walk with heads bowed solemnly, their shoulders drawn and their footsteps small: the posture of grief. The fox eared ones arrange themselves along the deck, facing toward the sea and the fire, the adults standing in a row behind the fledglings. The others wander to the fire's side, and the two leggeds there with soft sticks coax the great communal drum to begin its ancient melody: soft, uninflected, deep, the heartbeat of mother earth. The drummers begin to sing, a call and response, ululating, this song asking for the Great One's pity and support. The words of the song are as much a part of this land as the trees and the air. Part of the wholeness. All part of the web of life that makes us one.

I drop to the grass before the ones who stay on the deck, strutting an inspection. I pass Tall Grey Hair, elder Fox-ears and his son now grown; then the elder fox-ear woman, long a part of this flock. Two and two and two fox-eared fledglings stand still before them in fence lines. From behind the lodge two and one more two-leggeds come to stand to one side, in long white coverings and sea grass slippers, the tips of their hair glistening and wet. Grey Braid comes to stand before elder Fox-ears in silence, hands clasped before his breast, waiting.

No lodge daughter! The lodge daughter is gone...

Tragedy visits us all, two-legged and winged peoples alike.

This explains the lack of joy even with so many nestlings. The flock mother is gone.

Seaward the great black canoes with their mouth-red interiors converge into the cove and come to a stop, turning parallel to the beach and holding their paddles skyward-the traditional gesture of peace on entering the waters of a new nation. Each canoe family wears their wing covers in the colors and patterns of their Tribes. Through the trees from Grey Braid's lodge the dancers come, all in their fine regalia, the soft clatters of their jingles and shells singing to the land, the spirits. Young and old, small and large, they dance across the lawn to the drum, the song, their soft boots padding along the grass in time. The fire watchers build the fire, its flames rising and dancing, too.

I leap into the the air and hop from branch to branch in the great red cedars, ascending toward the sky, toward the stars, fading into the deepening shadows, silently watching.

A/N: Wiki 'tribal canoe journeys' for more information; pnwlocalnews dot com sanjuans isj entertainment 25739264 dot html, putting in slashes where needed ("Tribal Canoe Journey Passes Through the San Juans") for a news story and photo. Respectfully, the author does not represent in detail any Tribal tradition, or story beyond touching on the traditional one of raven bringing fire. Also google "raven" for behaviors-very intelligent birds. Some true personal oberservations inform the story, like having a raven echo: Hello! with _Hello! _What a surprise! But it only happened once.


	51. Ch 51 Tribal Chairman Toms Speaks

Admiral Greyson's House

Front Lawn, near Seattle

Spock's POV

A/N: Thank you for your patience and encouragement. We're still where Raven left us, at the memorial. Rather stream of consciousness, here.

A/N II: A couple of small changes have been made based on reader comments.

Evening falls. I have been directed by my Grandfather to proceed outside to the edge of the deck. I stand with the household for a memorial: formal recognition by the Salish Nation.

I am tired, perhaps even irritable. I should meditate. My control remains faulty. I have had enough of memorials, yet I must concede to this out of respect for our neighbor, out of respect for the effort made to put together this traditional recognition on our behalf.

I look upward and study the sky, and it has the same rich shadings as any other summer evening I have spent here. Those of us with Vulcan blood can now pick out the stars that will shortly become visible to the humans here. I used to tease mother by pointing out the location of the evening star before she could see it.

She would stand-precisely here-where I now stand on the edge of this deck, searching the sky for the evening star. I recall how the light reflecting from the Sound would outline her in silver-blue, the forest a dark backdrop, her expression wistful. And I further recall how I would off-handedly point out the location of the refracting planet; Mother sighing, squinting, and shaking her head as her eyes unfruitfully followed the trajectory my extended finger marked.

With the fading of the light the air has quickly grown colder, the surrounding sea reasserting its dominance. The dank, penetrating air is rich with its intense fish and seaweed scent. Even with Sarek's cloak wrapped around me, I am shivering. I should not be shivering so; this is more than the temperature alone merits.

We face the Sound, face the Tribal dancers. The young orphans stand quietly before us, also facing seaward, hands held properly behind their backs.

Our neighbor and an assortment of his family, and the many local Tribal representatives have come to present this Tribal Honor Guard: to honor our loss, to recognize our survival.

I swallow, recognizing it as a nervous behavior-mother pointed it out to me in my early school years-literally swallowing back emotion. She knew I would not want to expose my anxieties publicly and would whisper a warning into my ear when I lapsed into the action unconsciously.

I fear the anger I still barely control. Mother should not be dead, but she is. Vulcan should not be gone, but it is. It is all so wrong…so _wrong._ It is illogical, even confusing, but the sense persists that I failed both mother and my planet.

I continue to shiver and I struggle to center myself, to control my breathing. I have not struggled so intensely for control since I was a child. Of course on the Bridge…no, I will not think of that now. It is appropriate that I remain psychologically present.

Father stands beside me perfectly controlled as always, eyes straight ahead, unreadable. Family, and yet truncated: I feel mother's absence like an amputation. And I am off-balance with Nyota so near and yet not beside me. With the exception of my Grandfather, the humans gather by the fire at the beachfront. I see Rob has returned with my cousin Chris. Chris and Rob have seated themselves by the fire with Grace and Nyota and Kirk, the drummers adjacent. Between us the dancers wait solemnly, arrayed across the lawn.

Nyota. Your face is bright in the firelight; your eyes animated as you study the dancers. I want to call you to me; your absence from my side is nearly unbearable: one thing more that seems _wrong._

The wind seems to hold its breath, the air stills as the sodden clouds morph into mauve and orange layers, neither full day-light nor quite yet twilight: almost Vulcan colors. On the eastern horizon, the sunset skims beneath the clouds, and the mountaintops take on a ruddy glow.

Ruddy glow: the Llangon mountains glowed red at sunset. Mother would curl into the chaise lounge on the deck at home, wrapped in blankets against the dry air, to watch the sunset colors play across their escarpments. Of course the neighbors thought it odd of her.

I look down toward the cove, past the dancers, beyond the fire and the drummers to the dock. It was so mundane, the expectation that I would return here again and again with mother.

I remember mother on the dock below: full of life, scandalizing me by wearing an ordinary enough bathing suit, blue, her long legs fully exposed for anyone to see. She holds my gaze; her eyes twinkling with mischief as she lounges back on her beach towel, dropping her hand into the salty water she lightly splashes Skene.

I defend my little sister, splashing mother in response from where I stand thigh-deep in the frigid water. Mother just laughs. She is so beautiful. Of course, she always was. Skene strides off the dock in annoyance and up the bank to a bench by the firepit. She sat with her back to us, shielding her reader.

"Spock."

My face freezes and if my expression is even fractionally as bemused as my thoughts it would appear exceptionally inappropriate.

The recollection vanishes and I turn slightly to see my father staring at me with a crease between his eyebrows. "Spock. The ta'al. We are welcoming the Tribes in peace to this House."

I have no idea what I missed. I swallow in shame at my distraction and raise my hand in the Vulcan greeting, joining the other Vulcans. Savar glimpses over his shoulder at me, and I struggle not to sigh at the child's innocently curious look, the same fascination that has dogged me all my life: _not like us._

I attempt to erase all emotion from my face. And yet…my lost planet, my lost culture... I have always blamed difficult emotions on my heritage from mother. I fleetingly consider the illogic of _blame-_

When I meet Ernie Toms' eyes there are tears there. He nods once at me before continuing, speaking to my grandfather, "Any time, Robert."

"Welcome to my home and my family. I am honored to receive you as my guests." My Grandfather salutes the guests.

"Live long and prosper." My father adds quietly, simply.

"Peace, and long life." Ernie responds in kind. "Denise, do you have Grandma's candle?" The young girl beside him holds up a bag, which Ernie takes. He pulls out a decorated object and offers it to my grandfather.

"Esther made one of her fancy candles for you. She wanted me to give you this in Mandy's memory." The glittery candle is surrounded with artificial flowers and foliage, and my grandfather accepts the object.

"Thank you, Denise, Ernie. Let Esther know I appreciate her thoughtfulness." Grandfather tucks it into the crook of his arm.

Ernie turns to my father. Before us the dancers wait attentively.

"Ambassador Sarek."

And my father nods his acknowledgment.

"As regional Chairman, it is with great sorrow that I carry to you the official condolences of the Alliance of Salish Nations."

"On behalf of Vulcan's survivors, I accept your recognition of our loss."

Ernie squares his shoulders, surveying the ragtag group of survivors before him.

"Sarek. The web of life connects us all, all life in the universe. Some might name this a _quantum_ view. Not one light in the sky disappears without affecting the web as a whole. And within this wholeness, our peoples have entwined. We have become true relations, your people and mine. Your loss is ours as well. Your grief, ours. Nearly two centuries ago, Vulcans came to this planet with words of hope and peace. They came at a time when we had suffered greatly from war and were at a crossroads whether to grow up as a species or collapse into self-annihilation. Vulcans came to us as teachers, as mentors, bringing Earth peacefully into the greater galactic community. And for this, we are grateful. Your people's honorable example, we will remember. Thank you. The Vulcan philosophy of peace, we will remember. Thank you. We will remember all that Vulcan has contributed to civil society in technology, science, and the arts: thank you. And for the example set by Vulcan commitment to rational thought, thank you. These things the Vulcan people freely offered to the people of Earth and the Federation, demonstrating an admirable commitment, and an often overlooked generosity of spirit."

"We came to serve." My father states this so simply, so humbly. I glimpse sideways at my father, and for this moment he is the face of all Vulcan.

Sarek, you are so strong. You always have been. I am…so _honored _to be your son. Such power, stature, leadership.

Shame floods through me again: for my failure of control on the bridge of the Enterprise, for what happened on the Narada, for failing to support Kirk in his offer of mercy. Failure after failure.

Somewhere above us in the treetops a raven caws raucously, perhaps the same one that was stalking about in the grass.

Failure to save mother. Failure to save the planet.

I realize I am swallowing compulsively again.

For a long moment my father, Vulcan's Ambassador to Earth, and the San Juan Tribal Chairman lock eyes. Then Ernie steps closer to us and speaks more intimately.

"Now, I will offer one thing more: you can survive this genocide. You will not be unchanged. Your people will not recover quickly. But, if you so choose, you will survive. It is a difficult path, one the Salish people have walked and know well. And I am here to tell you to have hope. I know the Vulcan people are strong. I know you have good hearts. I know you have unbending will. But this may be a time for softness, for grief however you wear it. For quiet thought and waiting."

For a long moment he falls silent, eyes closed. "And for now, and in the future as you choose, let our planet receive your people as her own."

After the slightest pause, Sarek responds. "Most gracious. I will deliver your message to my people, Chairman."

"I am so sorry for the loss of Amanda." And then Ernie adds in careful Shi'Kahri, "_I grieve with thee."_

Involuntarily, I close my eyes. I imagine my grief transient as the wind, blowing through me, filling the sky and shredding the clouds.

Beside me T'Zel makes a slight sputtering sound, more restrained than a gasp, but a reaction nonetheless. I don't add to her shame by turning to her. A courtesy I am sure she affords me, too: my chin has dropped to my chest so unsure am I of my control. The brief press of a hand on my shoulder startles me, and I glance up—Sarek?

"I am more fortunate than most, Chairman." Sarek's hands swing to a clasp behind his back.

"_Indeed." _Ernie responds in our language, looking from Vulcan child to child, with his eyes including me in his benediction: "_Our children are our future." _

"_Yes. Where any hope resides." _

My father must resort to obsolete, pre-reformation Vulcanir to respond with such an emotional concept as 'hope.' He turns slightly, meeting my eyes, as expressionless as ever.

Sarek turns back to Chairman Toms. "_I must endeavor to be as courageous as my son._"

Both a fault and strength of Vulcan culture, my mother would say, is our intense disinclination to lie. My father perhaps more than most. It is…hard to understand how he could hold this perception of me.

"Speaking of courage…" Chairman Toms turns toward the fire and gestures toward the humans. It is Kirk that stands and strides up the hill toward us.

T'Zel steps aside, and without hesitation, Kirk takes position to my right. He squares his shoulders and nods to the Chairman.

"The Salish Nations recognize the service and sacrifices of the USS Enterprise, and the terrible losses of Star Fleet in the defense of the Federation, the defense of Earth." Ernie steps closer to Kirk and speaks quietly. "Captain Kirk. I have a few 'contacts' of my own. I'm aware of your actions, how close Earth, too, came to destruction. Thank you for saving us. Thank you for saving Earth."

Kirk gives a nod, "I'll forward your regards to my crew."

Ernie shakes his head. "You acted as a great warrior, Kirk. As did this one. You were a true warrior, too, Spock. And this is the lesson." He pauses to walk before the children, again studying the face of each one. "Our strength, our power, is in working _together_. This is the _Vulcan _lesson of IDIC, infinite diversity in infinite combination: we are stronger for our very diversity, for Vulcans and humans working together and creating a greater whole." Ernie stops before Kirk. "As you two…finally found. And became undefeatable." He returns to stand before me. "You transcended your personal losses, Spock. You kept fighting. You, too, saved Earth, saved us all."

Earth was the only home I had left. It had to be saved. I had to stop Nero.

"Thank you, Kirk. Thank you, Spock." Chairman Toms turns away from us and gives a slight nod.

BAM! The drummers as one strike the dance drum and the sound reverberates through the trees, through my body.

The Chairman raises a hand in benediction, his voice firm and resonating. "Peace to all here. Peace to the spirits of the Vulcan people, to the all those lost in the destruction and battle of Vulcan. To Amanda Jane Elizabeth Greyson _S'chn T'gai_. To the families of all you little children; peace to our warriors; to all of us who are survivors of this disaster. Peace. Peace. Peace."

Down by the fire, Chris stands and shakes a Vulcan sistrum, the clamor of the familiar ceremonial bells both right and wrenching. I wonder where Chris obtained such a traditional Vulcan instrument, especially now.

One of the drummers begins to sing, nearly keening a mourning song. The drummers repeat the caller's phrases and begin to beat the quiet, even rhythm again. One by one in a snaking line, the dancers circle to file past us in slow rhythmic steps, their regalia quietly clattering. They do not touch us, but each makes eye contact as they pass, an acknowledgement. The dancers then file across the lawn, past the Healers and Doctor McCoy; past Nyota and Grace and my cousins by the fire; on into the shadows past the boathouse. The dancers disappear as they follow the pathway into the trees, toward the neighbor's house.

Chairman Toms stands face to face with my father, and the silence seems sudden and deep. I can hear the crackling of the fire below, the soft sound the water makes as small waves wash the shore. The children are beginning to shift their feet impatiently. Ernie bows his head, perhaps even in prayer; he seems to be speaking softly to himself. He lifts his hand in the ta'al, the Vulcan gesture of peace. Chairman Toms nods and Sarek responds in kind, in some kind of understanding. Then Ernie turns away from us to silently retreat down the hillside.


	52. Ch 52 Post Memorial, Kirk's Comments

Greyson's House

Front Deck, following the Salish Memorial

Jim Kirk's POV

Humble.

That's how I feel lined up with a handful of people who've lost everything yet can still stand here with their calm dignity intact. Even these little kids, for god's sake: no tears, no ranting, no raving: no accusations or excuses: just this powerful calm...acceptance. What is the Vulcan phrase? Kaiidth? What is, is?

I'm not made that way. I was born fighting my circumstances, fighting to survive. I struggle, rant…even cheat to survive, to make things right. I've spent my life cheating death. For that matter, did I save Earth or did I cheat Death out of destroying it?

What would I be doing had Earth been destroyed? Not this. I wouldn't be calm. Or numb, if that's what it really is. Vulcan wasn't my home and still its destruction makes me want to drop to my knees, screaming. I may, yet.

Spock's only reaction to this memorial was glancing down for a moment when Admiral Toms spoke his mother's name. He just stands there cool as a cucumber. Jesus. I know his mother's death affected him: hell, I saw the look on his face in the transporter room when they'd beamed up without her. But judging by the way he looks now, who would believe those of us who can tell the tale?

Some long, meaningful look lingers between Admiral Toms and Sarek, something deep and determined. Toms steps back from Sarek, giving him the Vulcan salute, then gives Spock and me a nod before turning to follow the last of the dancers as they retreat down the hill. He walks slowly, seeming to carry all the dignity of his people in his steps as he goes.

Fleet has always tried to celebrate the diversity of peoples within the Federation. Admiral Toms' uniform reflects this, and has been modified to reflect his cultural heritage; multicolor ribbons hang from the shoulders, and a simple fringe runs beneath the arms. His hat is interesting, too: high crowned and hand woven from cedar strips: its wide, down-turned brim seems like a sensible design for shedding Seattle's relentless rain.

Toms and his people understand the Vulcans' circumstance: genocide and the struggle for survival. They understand the outrage of it and have struggled for generations to this hard won grace. And the Salish didn't offer the Vulcans just words. They physically demonstrated the very survival of their culture: in the beauty of their canoe journey, the variety of their simple dark ceremonial clothes emblazoned with shells and embroidery; dancing with formality, the women whirling in shawls with long strands of colorful fringe flying. Their shawls and clothing were covered in the graphic and complex rectilinear designs of Salish art; some designs clearly personal, some family or clan designs: bears, eagles, raven, beaver, frog, orca. The stylized red and white patterns stood out elegantly against the typically black wool clothing: glistening dots of mother of pearl shell buttons outlined designs. Some had tin cone jingles attached to their regalia to clatter in prayer; most wore the long white shards of dentalium shells in multiple necklace strands-both decorative and a demonstration of traditional wealth. I wondered what the Vulcans would understand of this ancient and rich culture of Earth, but they had seemed as entranced by it all as us lesser mortals.

The little Vulcan kids look lost now that the dance and presentation have ended. They're starting to fidget and look around like they don't know what to do next, and start to break rank and wander. Spock doesn't move or speak. He just stands still, his eyes distant, staring off across the Sound. His father-regal in his full Vulcan ambassadorial robes-stands still, too, but for a barely perceptible shaking of his head.

Sarek studies the glittered candle Toms gave him, turning it in his hands. Unexpectedly, he murmurs to no one in particular, "I proposed to her here. Twice."

Spock looks toward his father, but the Ambassador as quickly turns away. Sarek spins sharply on his heel and strides into the house, leaving Spock to stare after him.

The Vulcan woman in the dark clerk's robes—T'Zel?—puts a hand on Admiral Greyson's arm for support and Greyson responds by gently slipping an arm around the Vulcan woman's shoulders, surprising me when she doesn't recoil. T'Zel's simple gesture of distress is by far the most understandable one I've seen from any of the Vulcans here.

Spock doesn't move, just stares after Sarek's hasty retreat. I know better than to project human responses onto Vulcans, but it's hard not to imagine that the Vulcan Ambassador himself could be struggling to control his emotions.

I want to say something, anything, but Spock won't want my condolences. I rock a little, back on my heels, trying to come up with something culturally appropriate to say.

"Incredible control, Spock." I offer it quietly, trying to put a positive spin on his irritatingly cool demeanor; trying for once to say something that doesn't offend him.

He flashes me a hard look, and I realize he's taken it wrong. His eyes narrow and he obviously thinks I'm being sarcastic. "Ah, Spock…no hidden meaning there."

He looks down, frowning slightly, and fusses with his black traveling cloak, running his fingers over the silver Vulcan script embroidered along its lapel. I look away. I'm irritated at myself for the misstep and with him for being so damned difficult. He clearly doesn't think he's controlling well at all, and that I'm calling him on it.

Coming here was a gamble. I'm starting to think it was a mistake.

"Control…is the Vulcan way." He says it with such an affected tone that I realize it's meant with _humor: _he's backpedaling at his own expense. "Captain."

When I turn his face is unreadable, but he gives me the slightest ironic lift of one eyebrow. Well, that's new. I didn't know he could make light of himself. "Spock, I…"

"I shall ensure my father's well-being." He adds quickly, stiffly, and heads for the house as abruptly as Sarek.


	53. Ch 53 T'Nola

T'Nola

Greyson's House, Seattle

Front lawn; post memorial with Denise Toms and the Vulcan children

T'Nola's POV

I watch as the last dancers file away through the forest. I close my eyes, remembering the colors and sounds. This memorial reminds me of the great events of Shi'Khar. 'Atonement' where we remember our nuclear holocaust by walking to our family shrines to rededicate ourselves to logic, the walk a remembrance of our narrow survival. 'Gratitude' where the community gathers in the marketplace to recognize agricultural production workers and eat slices of freshly grilled plomeek, and sometimes Father lets us eat imported popcorn at the Shi'Khari University Alien Student Union. There is much music and appreciation of the arts. Then there are the High Holy Days that go back to the most ancient times. This has many processions to the ancient temples, with meditations and remembrances of ancient artists and writers and scientists. Of course the complete dialects of Surak are recited. Many children ask to be excused to our studies for the duration of the High Holies, though. They are quite…_boring_.

_Boring_ is a word I learned studying Standard. It is a useful word.

This memorial was not _boring_. The clothing the dancers wore was most fascinating and the speaker was very kind. I could not understand his words very well, but I could feel them.

We wear special clothing to our celebrations and memorials, too. At Gratitude we wear bright colors if we desire. I always select blue because it reminds me of Earth and Earth has always been my favorite alien planet.

I did not realize there would be so much green here, too. And it is so cold. A climate this cold on Vulcan would be considered uninhabitable. Of course Earth is a very diverse planet. I know there are deserts here, too, some that look almost Vulcan. But now…I do not wish to see them.

Birds are not _boring. _Vulcan has few flying animals and two of those are large and predatory and not at all pleasing. Birds are not large and they are involved in their own lives and not interested in eating you. At least, so far as I know. These ravens are intelligent and curious. The smaller juncos and wrens and jays are full of chatter and very lively. So Terran.

Before…before our field studies were interrupted I was even allowed to hold an injured raptor on my hand at a wildlife rehabilitation facility. I would find it most satisfactory to dedicate my life to such work. Perhaps now that I have no home to return to, I might be allowed such a choice some day.

Below us, Elder Grace is waving her arm and looking at us with facial contortions. I do not know what this means. I turn for clarification to T'Zel and am shocked to see her exhibiting an intimate level of contact with Elder Greyson: his _arm_ is around her shoulders!

"There, there." He murmurs to her.

Where is this 'there'? I understand the Standard word he speaks but he makes no sense at all.

I quickly look away. It is very confusing, and I must control the fear that starts to rise. I look to Savar and he does not appear to be any more informed than the rest of us.

Sel startles and declares, "She's _back—"_

He suddenly walks away from us, down the hill. Ah. Below, the young female we met has returned. Sel and T'Niise's resonance is palpable, even from here. Sel has lost all dignity hurrying to her. She still wears her traditional clothing, and has returned with a bundle in her arms. She shifts the bundle and also gestures with her arm. It must mean something to gesture so.

"Kirk, bring the kids down here. They're confused." Elder Grace calls, cupping her hands to her mouth.

When I turn to Captain Kirk he is evidently dissatisfied with being assigned this task because he sighs loudly.

"And I get stuck with the kids again." He shakes his head. "Come on."

Evidently we 'come on' to where 'there-there' is?

The three Healers are hurrying toward T'Zel.

Kirk shepherds us toward Grace as if we were a litter of sehlat pups.

Sel and T'Niise stand close and stare at their feet, shyly glimpsing up at each other like two six year olds on their first bond-match interview.

T'Pem stands close behind me as I march up to them. Selar, too, advances with me. Both Sepek and Savar stand behind us protectively.

"Hi." T'Niise says in Standard. "I have gifts for you."

This is unexpected.

T'Niise places her bundle on the grass and unwraps a cloth from around it. She takes out some kind of woven circle. It looks the same as the headbands the drummers wear. She takes one and holds it up before Sel.

"May I?"

"Yes." He responds, hypnotized by her. I have heard rumors that human females can have this effect on our males. I am certain he has no idea what she is asking permission for.

"See, it's made of cedar bark, well, inner bark that gets pounded sort of soft and bendy first. Then the strips get woven, and Grandma sews in this red felt lining so it's not too scratchy. Can you bend down a little?"

Sel bows at her command and she slips the band on his head and casually brushes his hair behind his ears as she adjusts it. Sel breathes in audibly but to his credit doesn't jump away. Or maybe he just finds her that…compatible.

I feel my face burn with embarrassment as the blood rushes to it. We were warned that humans have difficulty understanding how sensitive we are to touch and…what touch can mean for us.

I think she can sense our reaction because she turns to look at us and then her own face changes color, but to a fascinating bright pink that makes her eyes look even more startlingly green.

"Oh, yeah. No touching. Sorry." She rummages in her bundle and this time holds out circlets for Sepek and Selar to take from her.

Sel forgets himself and speaks in Shi'Khari. _"There is no offense taken where none is intended."_

"He says you are forgiven." Savar quickly translates to Standard for her benefit. "We accept your gifts with gratitude for your kindness." He places a band on his own head and bows. "Thank you."

I nod to Savar to acknowledge his skill in performing the human act of thanking. We were trained to do so for this trip, and not all of us have performed so admirably. I shall strive to follow his example, to remember and honor our teachers.

"And these are for the girls. I think I can put them on you without touching, OK?"

T'Niise bends and unfolds a black shawl with a raven design on it. Long red fringe hangs from it, nearly to the ground.

"This looks like yours." She carefully walks behind Selar and wraps the fabric around her shoulders. "What was your name?"

"Selar." Savar answers for her.

T'Niise glances at Savar and back at our youngest one, seeming to understand that Selar wasn't going to speak. "Selar, Raven took pity on the people and brought fire so they could have light and warmth."

Selar grips her shawl tightly; squeezing her eyes closed in satisfaction.

"This looks like yours. You're T'Pem, am I right?" Another black shawl, this one with a stylized animal appliqued in red, pearl buttons dotting it's edges, and long red fringe. "Bear is very powerful and protective."

"T'Nola." Only one shawl is left and my heart tightens in my side.

"This one's a little different, T'Nola. I hope you don't mind. It seemed like the right one for you."

T'Niise spreads it out between her hands. It is turquoise blue, a simple silver feather appliqued in the middle of it, long black fringe falls from its ends.

"It is…perfect." I breathe. Oh, beautiful blue! And now I am wrapped in this color. Blue, blue, blue!

Now I think may I understand something I read: Ambassador Soval's puzzling comment about humans, '_With many species we interact. With very, very few can we connect.'_

"Hey, The Niece. Why don't you show them how to dance?" One of the drummers calls out with a challenging tone.

"Good idea, Ricky." She makes a face at him, and he begins to beat a soft steady rhythm, raising his eyebrows.

T'Niise shrugs then turns back to us, full of intent to teach.

They cannot possibly be serious. But no, Elder Grace is nodding. This is a yes. Is there is no one to protect us?

"Don't be so worried." T'Niise smiles at me. She is very hypnotizing. Perhaps it is not only males who are affected. I cannot resist compliance. "Just hold your arms out like this and circle. See?

I try it. A little. The fringe swings outward.

"See? You're a spirit. A bird. These are your wings."

Oh, wings. Oh. I turn again and I have wings. Wings! I can circle and have wings. I am not a bird. I have no wings. I cannot fly. And yet…I turn.

"Yes! Yes, that's it! Now, T'Pem. Selar. Try it. You can do it! Look at T'Nola!"

The boys stand to one side, wary, and she attempts to get them to bend a little at their knees in time to the drum. This is simple for them, but strange. They try, awkwardly, to comply.

"Yes, yes! Step, turn. Step, turn. Dip your arms as you turn. Now up! Arms up!"

I am turning. I can represent a bird. It is an art form. I am a bird.

I release the steps, the directions, and let myself be carried on the drumbeat as I move.

I _imagine_ flying. I circle with dips and turns and soon Selar and T'Pem and T'Niise and I are turning together, describing intersecting circles in our motions, in freedom…satisfactory, oh, satisfactory this…

Is this '_play_'…?

I am turning, turning…trees and sky and water…everything becoming blue…turning faster…

Oh, I fly…!

Most odd. The grass is now beneath me, the darkening blue of the sky above, yet the planet spins and somehow the whole universe spins around me…

Sel spins above me, and T'Niise now, too, and her face is most strange. Together they are satellites to my whirling.

Her voice sounds like it is coming from very far away.

"Sel, oh, no, no. Is she all right?"

"I do not know."

"T'Nola?" She waves her hand in front of my face. "Can you hear me? Are you okay?"

T'Niise calls my name and her voice quivers with fear, her bright green eyes threatening to rain. It is all acceptable. There is only bliss.

She reaches for me but stops herself, staring. She turns to Sel. "Is she… smiling?"


	54. Ch 54 McCoy's Reflections

McCoy's Reflections

Post Memorial

I have to admit I hated to leave the hot tub for the Tribes' memorial. It wasn't just leaving the heat and relaxation I minded-although I was really enjoying that-it was breaking off the conversation. I was starting to have a really enlightening discussion of post traumatic stress disorder with T'Qilah and her apprentice, Skaal, when Greyson came around back to let us know the Salish folk were here to present their memorial.

God, the look on his face was priceless when he saw the three of us relaxing in the hot tub and tipping back his Romulan ale. That alone made the trip here worth it.

I had some specific questions about Vulcan PTSD symptoms I'd seen at the Embassy, and the Vulcan healers had some excellent adaptive treatment suggestions for me, especially Skaal who suggested ways for me to leverage my lack of telepathy to Vulcan patient advantage.

I could have picked the Healers' brains all night. The few I've worked with before were more evasive than helpful, and God knows my text book education on Vulcan physiology only takes me so far.

If I'd spent more time in that hot tub, though, I would have been pickled. And who knows what finishing off the fifth of Romulan ale might have done to a couple of pushed-to-their-limits Vulcan healers?

I have to admit I spent more time watching everyone _but_ the dancers. Spock struggling along. Sarek and the children looking dazed. T'Zel slowly fading from exhaustion. Greyson holding onto his dignity, but sorrow written across his features.

Jim needed his quiet moment of recognition. He needed this genuine, gentle honoring; not the hysterical hero worshipping Fleet threw him into.

The Healers are worried about Sarek. 'Closely monitoring', whatever. It translates to 'worried' for me. His people need him. And Sarek knows he's needed to lead the survivors. It's not letting him focus on taking care of himself. Plus, I'm convinced he's trying to keep up a strong front for his son.

The Healers assure me there _is _a Vulcan grieving process.

I'm glad I forced Spock to come here; it was the right thing to do. He was whipping around HQ like nothing had happened and he was in perfect control. That man takes compartmentalization to an art form. In fact, if you didn't know better you would have thought he was perfectly recovered. But it was his cousin, Chris-down there by the fire-that had gotten a hold of me and begged me to get Spock to Seattle. Said how robotic and in shock Spock seemed to him; and that Spock refused to attend his mother's memorial. That wasn't going to happen, not on my watch.

But Spock's one uncooperative patient. He thought he could just blow me off. Of course I think I made my point with Spock about who has medical authority, placing him in protective custody and having Cupcake serve him up to his Grandfather in handcuffs. Yeah, over the top, but Spock and I have had this little discussion about stallion breaking. I don't think he'll try bucking his Chief Medical Officer again any time soon.

Greyson hasn't said anything about that little bit of dramatic flourish, so maybe he doesn't hold it against me. Of course, Command, in addition to backing me up, transported Spock here in the UFP Presidential shuttle. That might have mitigated things a little.

I watch Sarek whip back into the house, but what catches the Healers' attention is T'Zel as she puts a hand on Greyson's arm for support. Skaal and T'Qilah share a glance and we hurry across the lawn toward her. I think about following Sarek, but decide my COM will notify me if he's in any physical trouble. If he needs a moment to himself, it's no wonder.

Spock hesitates, then follows his father into the house.

Greyson's arm goes around T'Zel and she sags against him. The woman's façade has slipped and she looks exhausted. How many days has she gone without rest?

Grace waves at Kirk to bring the kids down to the campfire and he grudgingly heads down with them—he avoids kids, something about Tarsus-so I know this is a stretch for him.

T'Qilah glances back at me, then speaks gently to T'Zel in Standard. "Doctor McCoy has made us aware of a water treatment that you may find most helpful. Admiral Greyson, with your permission?"

"What do you say, my friend?" Greyson asks gently, releasing T'Zel. "Let me serve you for once."

"I regret…" T'Zel trails off and Greyson takes her by the elbow.

"I'll bring her a robe and some food." Greyson assures us, leading T'Zel toward the hot tub.

T'Qilah's head turns sharply toward the children. "Skaal. Attend to them."

Below us the children are having a wonderful time. The neighbor girl's shown up and dressed the Vulcan kids in shawls and headbands, and the girls are whirling around dancing, too. God, they must be in need of some fun, and I say so.

Skaal's already heading down the hill when T'Qilah addresses me. "Vulcan children do not 'have fun.' "

And the first thought that crosses my mind is: _no wonder Spock's half deranged. _

"T'Nola is over stimulated."

I think T'Qilah's over-reacting, but an instant later the girl collapses onto the grass.

Even I know enough about Vulcan physiology to know the kid's just dizzy. I shrug.

"Are you not concerned?" T'Qilah asks evenly.

"They're playing. Dizziness is part of spinning around. It's all in fun. That's what children do."

"She is experiencing…happiness." T'Qilah intones as if she's diagnosed the plague.

I sigh in exasperation.

Skaal is kneeling beside the child, helping her to sit up. He places two fingers on her forehead for a moment, then sits back on his heels looking thoughtful.

"Experiential learning is acceptable; but her…_our_ boundaries are weak as we process the catastrophe," T'Qilah explains to me.

She's trying to teach me something. I can't really hope to understand, but what I can understand is that this might simply be too much for the kids. "Let's settle them down around the fire, then. That's what we planned, and we can make it kind of meditative, T'Qilah."

"Acceptable." She glances up at the house.

"Sarek. Should we…?"

T'Qilah closes her eyes for a moment, and I can see pain wash across her face. She nods to herself, as if she understands something. "He grieves deeply for his wife." She gives me a meaningful look. "I shall attend T'Zel. You shall assist Healer Skaal."

Yes, ma'am.


	55. Ch 55 In the Kitchen: Spock & Sarek

In the Darkened Kitchen

Inside Greyson's House

Spock's POV

It is dark inside when I follow Sarek into the house. Normally, as evening falls, sensors automatically turn on lights as one enters a room. I hesitate by the doorway and reach for the manual switches. By touch, I discover the lights have been physically turned off. My father must have done this himself, intentionally. How uncharacteristic.

I listen for some indication of my father's location, and I hear a soft hissing sound and the sound of running water. I head for the kitchen.

I can see to make my way through the house, but it is deeply shadowed. The deep blue of twilight glows in the windows. The kitchen is dark but for one burner lit on the ancient propane stove. The flame hisses quietly, burning its own shade of blue with occasional sputters of yellow.

On the prep table in the middle of the kitchen, Sarek has left the candle from the Toms. Its golden glitter and riot of greenery is utterly un-Vulcan. Its beauty lays in the intent of the gift.

By the sink, my father stands silhouetted against the kitchen window, his back to me. He leans against the sink, his hands clenching and unclenching against its rim. The water is overflowing the teakettle, yet it goes unnoticed.

I lean around Sarek to turn off the water, glancing sideways up at him as I do so, but I cannot read anything from his expression. I lift the kettle from the sink and move it to the already lit burner. In the cupboard beside the stove I rummage for some kind of tea my father might favor, picking through several boxes before finding a small box with a single teabag of k'chr tea remaining in it. I lift it to my nose, breathing in the spicy, familiar scent.

For a moment I am transported to Vulcan, to the rocky hillside above our home. When I was a child I would climb to my secret hide-away, an outcropping that overlooked Shi'Kahr far below. In winter, the k'chr that grew in the shade of the boulders would bloom in tiny blue-speckled clusters of flowers, filling the air with its scent.

The site was in fact visible from the house, a reasonably safe retreat for a child. Grandfather Skon confided to me that it was also Sarek's secret retreat when _he_ was a child.

"The children are playing. Vulcan children do not play." My father's voice is just above a whisper.

I glance over my shoulder at my father, but say nothing. I adjust the kettle over the flame, find the lid laying on the countertop and fit it back on the kettle.

"Past infancy I never allowed you to play, although I am aware that your mother indulged you in it."

I have nothing to say to this, but I sigh to myself before turning to place a spoon and the tea on the table. There are two mugs already on the table, placed beside the candle. I wonder if my father even realizes he set out both a plain brown mug and the white imari tea mug mother favored. They never made tea without making it for each other, so undoubtedly he retrieved two cups simply out of habit.

I pick a match out of a little box by the stove, and quietly light it with the burner's flame. I touch the match to the wick of the Toms' candle, and it slowly flickers to life, shifting the light in the kitchen from blue to a weak yellow glow that serves only to deepen the shadows in the room. I blow out the match and place the dead stalk of it on the edge of the stove.

Mother could indeed literally light up a room with her eyes, her acerbic wit, her laughter.

I lift the little white cup between my hands. It is smooth and cool and firm, like the feel of her hands in mine. I bring it to my chest, my eyes closing.

Sarek speaks softly without turning. "Would that Vulcans shed tears, Spock. It seems so much more efficient a means of release than the struggle of meditation."

I swallow and focus on the little cup as it warms in my hands. He has no idea how deeply his words cut me.

Am I not Vulcan?

How can I counter that there is no correlation between tears and efficiency?

How can he possibly not know that I…that I…

I take a breath, slowly release it. "I have lit the memorial candle."

He turns, taking in the candle, the cup in my hands. "I do not wish to _remember_ her."

His words strike me more painfully than a physical blow. Surely I misunderstand?

He reaches for the candle and pinches out the flame, then rubs the wax and char of the candlewick between his fingertips, frowning.

"I wish for _her."_ He blurts in a gasp.

My vision blurs.

Behind me I hear the water in the kettle begin to boil.

Before I can turn to retrieve the kettle he stops my motion with nothing more than the brush of his fingertips across my arm, his words a murmur. "She was my _bondmate. _I am ripped in two without her_…" _

I nearly panic at the wave of anguish—not mine-that floods me. Sarek senses my reaction and his shields abruptly rise.

"Forgive me."

But the damage is done, and my eyes burn with tears for Mother. I have let him down. I could not share his grief, not even for an instant. He is remote from me, deflated. I realize I have offered my father no comfort at all.

Unsteadily, I place mother's favorite cup back in the cupboard and force myself to calmly lift the kettle, turn to the table, pour water over the teabag of Vulcan herbs I placed in Sarek's mug. I place the kettle back on the stove, turn down the flame, then pick up the small box of matches.

I recall how he made a point of coming to me on the Enterprise, his stunning words: _I married her because I loved her._ It was a revelation. He knew I needed to hear this from him. But why did it take the destruction of Vulcan and mother's death for him to make that admission to me?

He grieves. I should be more kind.

We are both breathing heavily.

I deliberately remove a match, strike it loudly on its box and re-light mother's candle, studying the flame without looking up.

"How else may I serve you, Father? Perhaps I could light your asenoi?" I keep my tone even, Vulcan, despite the shameful tears, blatant evidence of my physiology betraying me.

Sarek is close enough that I know without looking that he is studying me. He is silent for a long moment, and I hear him exhale, as I have been doing, in a long slow, calming breath.

"She often said I was 'like a bull in a china shop' with you." He offers at last, evenly.

I glance up at him at that. "A colorful metaphor."

"Indeed." He reaches toward my face, and I turn away but do not pull back. But he does not actually touch me. "Spock…"

I close my eyes as anger threatens to overwhelm me, and I keep it at bay, but barely. "I am Vulcan. But I am also _her_ son."

"Of course." This time, shields firmly in place, he lightly brushes the back of his hand across my cheekbone, capturing a bit of the moisture that has escaped there. "I, too, am lost without her."


	56. Ch 56 Helping T'Zel

Helping T'Zel

On the back deck of Greyson's House

Robert Greyson's POV

A/N: This is my light response for the readers who suggest Robert and T'Zel should marry and keep the kids. Happy holidays.

Oh, those unfathomable Vulcan eyes. T'Zel stares back at me and it's like watching a supercomputer run through all the possible permutations of a complex equation: beautiful, big brown intelligent eyes.

The hot tub has done wonders for her. I don't know why we haven't done this before other than her reticence and modesty prevented it.

"You are not serious." She finally replies.

She slides down a little more in the hot tub, and I pour in a little more detergent to bubble up for her modesty. Foam is already spilling all over the decking.

"You wound me, my love." I tease.

She purses her lips, but I note that the tips of her ears blush green. Success.

"Do not make light of my…"

"My dear, Vulcans don't have hearts." It delights me that I have finally perturbed the Imperturbable.

She splashes me, and a pillow of bubbles sticks to my arm. "Bah. You of all people should know better."

I laugh, surprised, brushing off the froth. "It looks pretty nice in there. Are you sure I can't join you?" Oh, the joy of double entendre. T'Zel has always been terribly prudish, and 'joining' is a favorite Vulcan euphemism.

"I am sixty three point four years your elder. I serve this household with _dignity._" She actually turns up her nose a little. Ah, she's playing along. Excellent.

"And you don't look a day over one hundred." She rolls her eyes at me. She has lived on earth _that_ long, long enough to understand the cliché. "Seriously. Marry me and keep the kids here."

"It is not in the children's best interest."

"It's in _your_ best interest. Who better to preserve Shi'Kahri culture and language?"

But this hits a little too close to home and I see real pain in her eyes. There might not be any other Shi'Kahri families.

"There are Vulcan households. On Vulcanis. The smaller colonies. Even here on Earth and on Mars."

"All right. Then don't marry me. But stay here. Keep the kids together."

"We are too…damn…old, Robert."

"Young people die all the time. No one knows their own expiration date. Hell, I'm so young and valuable Fleet's calling me back to active duty."

"Another reason why I cannot marry you."

"Because I have a job? Darling, you wound me again."

"I am beginning to find your endearments satisfactory. But you are of no help if you are not here. I would have to impose on your entire extended family."

Now I'm a little genuinely irritated. "I told you, Spock's told you: we _are _your family. There is no imposition."

T'Zel looks away, and a tendril of her gray streaked hair slips down the green-tinted ivory of her neck. Lovely. I blink. I didn't just…feel attracted to her, did I?

She turns back toward me, almost as if she had sensed…her mouth twitches to one side.

"Robert, you are…incorrigible."

"Romantic."

"You are human. Humans love so frivolously."

I slide up to the edge of the hot tub and slip my feet in.

"Echh. You did not wash them off."

"Did so. Surprise."

"Oh."

"You were saying my love is frivolous, my dear."

"You love toast. The cat. Your newsvid. Tea." She is recalling precisely the last few times I used the word 'love.'

"I love _you_."

"You do not."

"Oh, ho. I do so. I can prove it." I hold out two fingers to her. I'm probably pushing her too far.

"This is a trick." Her eyes narrow, but she is Vulcan and thus curious as a cat. She lifts two wet and foamy fingers out to me.

I brush my fingers very lightly across hers, nothing more, and raise my eyebrows. "Well?"

She turns her nose up again, but not before I catch an uncertain flash in her eyes. "You love me at least as much as breakfast or irises. Point conceded. Nonetheless I do not wish a marriage that is a sham."

"Who says it would be a sham?" I tilt my head a little, considering. Who indeed? I was teasing, knowing she would refuse, but would a marriage of convenience be such a bad thing? "You know, there would be no question, then, about you being part of this family."

She senses my change in tone. "Robert. I am honored. But you are an old human. It would break my heart to be bonded to you for such a short time."

"It could be a brief spark of glory, T'Zel. We could have a month, a year? Perhaps even twenty?" I hold two fingers out to her, feeling a surge of affection for her. "The offer remains…open."

She touches her fingertips to mine, and graces me with a slight, and precious, Vulcan smile. "You have done enough."


	57. Ch 57 Kirk, Fireside

Waterfront, Greyson's House

Down by the Fire

Kirk's POV

I guess I'll get these five Vulcan kids settled in next to the fire; they seem content enough to go along with the program. The one kid wants to hang out with the neighbor girl, so I don't bother him. It's what I would have done at that age—find the cutest girl and ingratiate myself. Sometimes I'd even get to be friends and hang out somewhere decent for a while before Frank would show up and ruin things.

Later, it wasn't like these innocent kids at all.

Spock's two cousins are already hanging out by the fire with Uhura and getting to know her. Rob is relaxed, looking brotherly, open, but I can see Chris checking her out like a job applicant. He's protective of Spock. But Uhura is Fleet's finest. I know she's got nothing to worry about. She'll pass muster.

I liked the drummers; they seemed to appreciate my help, packing up. They invited me to come over later for the salmon bake on the Toms' beach-they hadn't wanted to offend the vegetarian Vulcans by bringing it up.

I'm not sure what I'll do next. I put a call in to Lieutenant Sulu. I think he might be able to pull together a rescue squad before I wear out my welcome.

If he doesn't show, I guess I'll be baking fish over a fire later. The drummers did mention they'd be powering up some classic rock music. That sounds like a good party to me.

When I was a kid, I'd hole up in my room and read for hours and sometimes days on end to shut out Frank and my brother's constant fighting…and to fill the void of my mom's absence. I'd read a lot about North American First Nations cultures. Then I'd go stand in the mud of our farmyard and imagine what it must have been like hundreds of years ago, the way they lived: a life that, at least to me, seemed like both freedom and connection. Wide prairies, bison roaming, people working together to make a life that made sense.

I'd read about the coastal cultures, too, but the Salish had seemed as distant to me then as Vulcan.

I'd hated space as a kid, for all it had taken from me. But, reading about those cultures kept my curiosity alive, may have kept my mind open to other possibilities than the sink hole I'd been headed for before Chris Pike got in my face.

It must be the fire and the kids, making me think about my childhood. I miss my brother. We used to be able to talk. My brother George named after my dad: whom my mom couldn't bear to call by name after my father died. So I started calling him Sam because mom wouldn't call him anything at all.

I keep organizing more chairs around the fire, trying to figure out how many are needed. I get Skaal and the dizzy little Vulcan dancer seated; I make sure there is an extra seat beside Uhura in case Spock shows up. The other kids are lined up close to the fire on a bench I dragged over for them, the littlest one swinging her feet. I drag a couple more adirondack chairs around the fire for the adults.

Rob brings up a cooler from his boat and passes out some more beers. Uhura declines, but Grace and Skaal and I all take one.

A good man, Rob. Damn decent.

Good people, the lot of them. Makes my teeth hurt, all this goodness. Makes me want to get back up in space with all the 'death and disease wrapped up in darkness', however Bones' puts it. I can feel the clock ticking. The Romulans are out there knowing we're weakened; the Klingon are wounded after the Narada tore through their Fleet-and like a bear may lash out just because they're mad about it. Coridan is consuming itself with greed; getting predatory prices for the dilithium Fleet needs—and making themselves look like a more profitable hit for the Orion pirates waiting in the wings.

I've turned into a gargoyle; I want to fight the good fight, to wrestle with the devil, but a little of the evil and ugliness has rubbed off on me, made me unsuited for this world.

I should be out there. We should be with my ship. I need Spock and Uhura and Bones there, too.

I can't blame Spock for needing to retreat to lick his wounds. I can't blame any of the Vulcans for anything; no one can imagine the hell they're going though.

But I'm a survivor, too. And sitting around is starting to feel weak. I jump up before I jump out of my skin and rub the back of my neck with my hand to loosen up the tendons.

I build the woodpile up for Rob before I can settle back into my chair. One Vulcan kid, I forget his name, but he's on the skinny side, goes pyromaniac and starts burning a stick in the fire. He blows it out and uses the ember to burn marks on the slick side of a log. That kid I can relate to.

Damn. I can read the scrolling burn marks-Vulcan script: T'Kassi, Shi'Kahr, T'Khut, some other words that look like names. He tosses the log into the fire and starts on another one, getting better at his wood burning.

He sees me watching him and he raises an eyebrow. Guess it's not just Spock that does that.

"I forgot your name."

He looks at me like I'm an idiot, then looks around at the trees, the buildings. "Jason."

"That's not your name."

"It would suffice." He responds sullenly in perfect Standard, for some reason surprising me. I expected him to speak in the Shi'Kahri dialect the kids have been using with each other. It occurs to me to wonder if a Vulcan kid should be belligerent.

"What is it, really?"

He pokes his stick back in the fire. "Sepek."

"You okay?"

"A pointless and rhetorical question, as the only reasonable answer possible is _no_." He draws the flaming stick out of the fire again, blows out the flame and studies the ember he's made.

I hold my palms out in surrender, signaling I'm backing off, and turn my attention back to Uhura and Chris.

"He _did_ ask me to come." She's saying to Chris. "I had trouble getting away from Intel…and after what happened…I can get a little obsessed with picking up remote transmissions."

Chris looks at me. I'd filled him in on what had happened. "I think I can understand that."

"It was just…he left without any warning."

Chris looks down, then back up at Uhura. "My fault. I didn't know your CMO would respond so aggressively."

"CMO? What did McCoy do this time?" I butt in.

Chris turns to me, running a hand through his not quite blond hair. "Long story short, Dr. McCoy put him on mental health leave; Spock was delivered to the doorstep in handcuffs by some beefy security officer. Evidently Spock hadn't responded to the CMO's directive so he put him in protective custody."

"Spock blew McCoy off?" Even I am not stupid enough to do that.

"I begged him to get Spock here for his mother's memorial."

I purse my lips, frowning. Bones did the right thing, but his means to the end was heavy handed. I'm out getting my backside gilded and Fleet's cuffing the guy that really saved the Earth. I decide I'm ticked off, but I'm not sure whether it's at Bones or Brass. Or both.

Uhura tears up a little, but her expression stays calm. "That explains why he disappeared; why he was messaging me."

"He's under house arrest. He can't leave."

She discretely wipes a finger under the corners of her eyes, and nods. Then she leans back, smoothing her long dark ponytail over her shoulder, and breathes out. "I wish I'd met his mother, Chris. I saw her from a distance once, but…"

"Spock worried about appearances." Chris says gently. "And timing."

"Was 'aware of the potential for misinterpretation.' " Uhura seems to be quoting.

"Mmm hmm. Worried." Chris smiles knowingly. "You know, he was always very protective of his mom. I think he was being protective of you, too."

And they share this look between them like they are members in the secret 'we get Spock' club.

"Aunt Amanda would have loved you, Uhura." Rob stretches out his long legs, putting his hands behind his head.

"Oh, no doubt about it." Grace affirms.

Skaal's eyebrows lift slightly. He remains silent, but his eyes intensely study all of us like he'll be taking graduate exams on us later.

"What was it like? Her memorial." Uhura asks Chris and Grace. "I'm so sorry I didn't make it."

For a long moment, Chris and Uhura share a silent stare until I start to wonder if they're both empaths. "It was just family. Informal. We just looked at old vids and told stories. Ate."

"And Spock…?"

Chris looks away and takes a slow breath, almost sighing as he breathes out. "He was controlled, but angry. In my opinion, he was probably embarrassed to be dropped off in front of everyone like a criminal, hand-cuffed. He marched upstairs without so much as a how do you do, and stayed there until Grandpa told me to go get him and make him come down."

Uhura nods. "With some colorful emphasis, I'd bet."

Chris smiles wryly for a moment. "You're picking up on us pretty fast. I got Spock to come downstairs but he just stared out the front window, his back to us for maybe forty-five minutes or an hour. Present, but not. Everyone left him alone, even Sarek."

Chris seems to gather himself, his eyes warily noting the Vulcan kids with us around the fire. "Rob's little girl Sarai sang. You know the song, the Libera version: 'Do not stand by my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep'? Well, the sun was sparkling on the water out here in the cove. He was staring and just leaned his forehead against the glass…"

"Yes." Uhura closes her eyes, quoting, "…'_I am the thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow, I am the sunlight on ripened grain'_…"

"Then mom ran this vid of Aunt Mandy laughing at something, maybe it was a birthday party. It just made it worse for him…I tried to run interference so Spock could get out of the house, get some privacy. He had a couple of minutes before his father and Grandpa Greyson followed him out."

Uhura reaches out and gives Chris's hand a squeeze. "Thank you for being there for him."

Chris looks worried. "I hope I did the right thing contacting McCoy."

"He needed this. He needs to know he still has family, _here_."

Sepek pushes the log he's been marking into the fire and it crackles as it catches fire.

I go to the pile of wood, find another log with a nice smooth surface on one side and casually sit it on the ground in front of Sepek before returning to my chair.

"Put 'George' on that one for me. That's my father's name."

Sepek seems a little surprised that I understand what he's doing. He studies me for a long moment before pushing his stick into the fire again, getting the ember good and hot before starting to burn more names into the wood. The first name is written in the Roman alphabet: _Chiyorjh_.

"Jim," Grace calls to me gently, "we forgot to bring the marshmallows down. Could you run up to the house and get them?"

A/N: Thank you again, Vulcan Language Dictionary! The poem/song "Do Not Stand By My Grave and Weep" is generally attributed to Mary Frye, and the internet indicates it is public domain. The Libera version set to music is very beautiful.


	58. Ch 58 Kirk & Spock in the Kitchen

Kirk & Spock in Greyson's kitchen

Kirk's POV

A/N: A longer read for the holiday weekend. Enjoy.

I enter the house and it's dark inside. I'm not sure whether I should turn on the lights or not, so I just make my way to the kitchen and hope I don't run into the furniture. There's a little light coming from there.

In the candlelight, I just catch Sarek brushing Spock's face with the back of his hand. It's such tender moment between the two Vulcan's that it startles me. And stings a little that I will never know that kind of father son relationship.

I start to back away but Sarek sees me and quickly picks up a teacup from the table. I notice that he's holding the cup away from its saucer, to hide the tremor in his hands.

"I shall retire to my room, Spock. I am grateful for the tea." He says formally to Spock, but his eyes meet mine. "Perhaps the Captain would also like tea."

"Grace sent me to get marshmallows for the kids."

Spock silently turns to search in a cupboard, and hands me a floppy, mostly full bag. I'm reminded of…all kinds of things I shouldn't have done with them in my undergrad days. Especially since Gaila was partial to them, and very creative.

By the stove, Sarek puts down his teacup and retrieves two more from a cupboard. Then he turns to put the two he retrieved on the table in front of Spock. "I believe this one…is yours, Spock." He pushes the rather delicate looking white one toward his son, and their eyes meet in a silent conversation for a moment before Sarek turns toward the stove.

Sarek turns up the flame beneath the teakettle then takes his teacup up again, raising it with both hands to his nose and breathing in its aroma. "Perhaps you should mention your mother's recent e-vids to the Captain."

Spock doesn't reply; he stares at his father's hands, then turns to rummage in another cupboard by the stove. His back is turned, so he misses the unguarded look on Sarek's face before he takes his leave of us: both worry and affection.

Spock turns back to the table with an armful of containers, his eyes flicking toward the stairs where his father retreats into the darkness.

"Sorry for interrupting."

Spock shakes his head slightly. "No matter. He should rest." He places several boxes on the table, consolidating their contents and flattening the empty containers for recycling. "I don't know what kind of tea you prefer, Captain."

"We're off duty. It's _Jim_."

Something niggles at the back of my brain and I realize that Spock just used a contraction. In advanced linguistics class, the students would award each other beers for catching him using contractions. Rarely did anyone collect, but when they did we'd repeat the sentence and _laugh_ about it over our brews.

I realize he hasn't been talking in that stilted 'Standard as a second language' grammar and I wonder for the first time if it's not an affectation. Do we expect someone who looks so Vulcan to _sound_ different_?_ I'd expect Spock would pick up on that, maybe even cultivate it a little. Especially, perhaps…if he knew we were betting against him. I hope to hell he doesn't know we laughed at him, too.

"You're fully bi-lingual, aren't you." I state out of the blue and he glances up at me, blind-sided by the question.

"No. I am poly-lingual, in four languages: Shi'Kahri, Golic or 'Standard' Vulcan, Federation Standard and English. The languages of my parents, as are most poly-lingual. I am fluent in seven other earth languages, all Vulcan variants including the Romulan ones, along with Andorian, Tellar standard—"

I can't help myself-I burst out laughing.

Spock snorts and whees a short phrase in Tellarian and raises his eyebrow.

And I run a hand down my face to keep from snorting, but in laughter. "Don't _ever_ do that to me if I need to keep a straight face."

Of course he keeps a perfectly straight face. "You have demonstrated the reason why few humans speak Tellarian well."

I push the awful image of Spock and Uhura practicing Tellarian out of my brain before it explodes.

"So no real reason for the absence of contractions out in the real world?"

He looks a little caught out. "It seems to make humans more comfortable when I speak in the patterns used by secondary language speakers. When I…_don't_…"

"Cognitive dissonance occurs."

"Precisely. Jim."

Point made. It feels weird when he calls me Jim.

It never made sense to me that he could be a quantum physicist and yet unable to form contractions. And then to have a human mother who was a xenolinguist…it hadn't added up.

"Don't you sacrifice a little of your real self in the bargain?"

"Who is _your_ real self? The son of the hero George Kirk; or James Tiberius Kirk, notorious midwestern genius delinquent?"

Pike, actually, coined that phrase and I'm starting to hate it.

"And rule breaker." I toss off, flippantly.

"Cheat."

_And you can go to hell_, I think. I can feel my face heat up at that and I whirl to go before I do something stupid, but Spock actually grabs me by the arm.

"Wait." He lets go quickly, which is a good thing. I'm a guest here after all, and I'm sure neither of us wants to revisit the Bridge debacle.

And then to my surprise he adds, "Please."

I remind myself we shook hands on this: _that we agreed to consciously work to end this bitter competition between us. _Spock's words. 1

Spock lifts the teakettle from the stove as it gurgles into a boil, and pours hot water into the white cup and another blue one with some kind of commercial logo on it of a fishing boat.

"I do not know what kind of tea goes with beer. Lemon, perhaps?"

I sigh and put my empty beer bottle on the table. "Seriously. No tea."

He stuffs a teabag into the white cup then, and puts the kettle back on the stove. Spock rummages a beer out of the stasis box and offers it to me.

"Definitely more to my liking. Thanks." It comes out stilted. I'm angry, but determined to hear him out.

"You believed the Kobayashi Maru was itself a cheat."

"Yes."

"I did not understand your determination to demonstrate this."

"Clearly."

"But my mother did."

_What?_

He lifts his cup, examining it. "This was my mother's favorite cup. I can identify many qualities it holds in great detail, including its cultural history, the chemistry of its glazing. But I cannot tell you _why_ she liked it."

"She just did, probably."

"But that is not a logical statement. And it is incomprehensible to me."

"Is liking something ever logical?" Or someone. We're talking about a cup, but I can't help that the image of him tenderly kissing Uhura goodbye comes to mind.

"Kirk. If I cannot understand so simple a thing as my own mother's criteria for ceramic-ware selection, can you see that it is possible that I might misconstrue your motivation for sabotaging the Kobayashi Maru test?"

I stare hard into his eyes.

"I discussed your academic hearing with my mother."

"Go on."

"We disagreed rather vehemently. I described to her how you had cheated, illegally hacking into a protected academic testing system, in clear violation of Academy policies—"

"Irritating you, since you had programmed it—"

"Which is beside the point—"

"Not if you consider—"

Spock slams his palm on the kitchen table, startling me and making the teacups rattle. "Listen to me."

Interesting. I take a breath. Okay, I can do this. "So what did your mother have to say?"

"She was quite angry. She indicated that you lived with the Kobayashi Maru every day of your life, and that defeat by the program was tantamount to letting your father die."

I close my eyes and swallow. Yeah. Pretty much dead on.

Spock falls silent until I open my eyes to see him studying me.

"She was right, then. It is such…an emotional justification for your behavior."

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"I heard her, but did not believe her. I did not listen. I was blinded by my own…self righteousness."

I think I'd better hold my tongue.

"She also thought it was cruel to subject you in particular to that test. To the point that she lodged—with my father's support—a formal protest against the Academy for hazing."

I blink at him. "Shit, Spock. I…ah, I'm sorry I put you at odds with your mom like that."

"I put myself at odds with her. I should have listened to her advice. After all, I asked for it, and evidently it was sound. I know my understanding of human motivation is flawed."

"Well, you were going by the book…" I can't believe that I'm defending Spock to himself.

Hell, it all seems so petty now, after the disaster of the Narada, the loss of so many Fleet ships, the destruction of Vulcan. But maybe we need to get the hearing off our chests.

"I could have presented my criticism of the test in a less 'in your face' way."

"Certainly. And as a teacher…I had an obligation to you to be more…perceptive. And perhaps to take less draconian measures. Particularly in light of the advice I had received from my mother and ignored."

I cross my arms over my chest. "Is that an apology?"

I can see this isn't easy for him. I contrast the struggling man before me with the arrogant instructor at the academy. It's been a hard fall.

"Yes. For this, I apologize. I am sorry James Kirk, for calling for your expulsion. I believe now that the premise of the test is flawed, that I over-reacted to your sabotage, and that the Academy had no business imposing such a test on someone who, as my mother put it, lives with the test every day of his life."

For a moment he is silent and he holds the cup with obvious tenderness. I think he wishes he could apologize to his mother, too.

"She also told me I had made a terrible political mistake. That I would be vilified if the Academic Review Board found in your favor. That I had offended the son of a hero of the Federation. And that there were still plenty of humans that I should fear who resent Vulcan's control over earth. Humans who would like nothing better than a Vulcan to hate." He took in a slow breath. "I think I am beginning to see the truth of her perceptiveness in my…invisibility since returning. Not that I do not prefer it to what you have been subjected to, Captain."

"Sounds like she was a pretty smart lady, Spock." _Had to have been if she was defending me_, I joke to myself.

Spock swallows, but does not respond. God but he misses her. He doesn't have to say anything for me to see it.

He clears his throat a little. "Cadet Gaila…did she know you used her security access to infiltrate my program?"

I deserve this. "No."

Spock stares at me hard, deciding whether or not to believe me, then nods once. "I am…relieved there was no collusion."

We study each other, and for a change it doesn't feel like judgment.

"I used her, yes. But I…She was my friend." A friend with benefits. A friend I misused. "She was on the Farragut."

"I know. I posted her there." He pauses for a moment then adds, "I am sorry for your loss."

"Yeah." I take a swallow of the beer. "I'm sorry I used her. For that, I deserve punishment."

"Yes. You do. She was one of my interns, and an exceptional programmer. She deserved better treatment."

I sigh. Two steps forward. One step back.

"I allowed myself to be swayed by those who wished to make an example of you." Spock continues.

I laugh abruptly, without humor. Evidently I have some enemies as well as friends in high places. Well, I know Pike had to pull a lot of strings to get me into the Academy—and probably more to keep me there.

Spock looks confused. "My intent was to expressed regret for what I see now as a misjudgment."

I wave my hand, "I get it." I realize I've had enough beer and pour the rest of the bottle down the sink. "You know, we're both pretty pig headed."

"I am Vulcan and human. I have no Tellarite ancestry, nor, I believe, do you."

"Stubborn. Unwilling to back down." I realize he knows exactly what it means by the glint in his eye.

"My mother also believed I was 'pig-headed.' As 'pig-headed as my father.' We…pretended not to understand her."

So. Vulcans can _tease._

"Spock," I have an awful thought, and I'm not sure I want to hear the answer, "was the disagreement the…last communication you had with her?"

"It was the last before Vulcan was attacked. Yes."

One more way I've made a mess of his life: the last conversation he had with his mother he was fighting with her about _me._ No wonder he was outraged when I…of all people…accused him of not loving her.

I, of all people.

What is it with this guy and me? God, but we have a talent for pushing each other's buttons.

He takes a sip of tea and his hand, like his father's, has a visible tremor. "She was…concerned for me. There was no rancor." He takes another sip, looking away. "Do not concern yourself."

I study him. "Still. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, what I said to you on the Bridge." It's just that Selek handed me a fully loaded psychological weapon, and I used it: I left that little ice ball knowing exactly where to push, what to say.

Spock stares at me, for a moment, and I feel like he's bracing himself, like he's preparing to say something. But his shoulders drop fractionally and his eyes slide to one side. "I should be apologizing to _you, _Captain. If my father had not been there I might have killed you."

I realize my hand has gone to my throat. "Glad he was there." On the Bridge I had expected him to react to my needling, but not with quite the ferocity I got. "And apology accepted."

He sighs and takes a slow sip of the tea, his eyes closing. "What does the doctor say about your injuries? You will recover fully?"

"I'll be fine." I say, glossing over McCoy's diatribe about soft tissue injuries, but Spock's eyes look haunted as he stares at me. There's something he isn't saying.

Spock takes a couple of steps to the hallway off the kitchen; the white teacup still clasped in both of his hands. There are numerous family holograms displayed on the wall and he studies them: of the waterfront here, school photos, weddings; even one with T'Zel and a couple of young kids, looking unchanged. I look over his shoulder. In the flickering candlelight the faces in the holos waver uncannily, seeming eerily alive.

"I responded as you intended." He states quietly.

"Yeah. I kicked you when you were down. I'm not proud of that."

"The outcome speaks for itself. Earth was saved." He shifts the teacup to his left hand, and rests the fingertips of his right hand on the edge of a holo. "For this I am grateful."

He sounds profoundly sad as he says it, though. _I broke the damned Vulcan_, I think. He was pushed to his limits and I pushed him over the edge. Worse, I know I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

"That's…you?" Two elf-eared children in footed pajamas curl before a Christmas tree—the boy cross-legged and petting the gray and white cat curled in his lap, a younger brown haired little girl behind him with her arms around his neck looks shyly upward.

"Yes." He glances at me sideways and raises an eyebrow in a question.

Is that…was that his sister?

"It's just…er, cute. Not a word I'd typically associate with you."

"Indeed."

There's a similar picture on the wall of a house in Iowa; of Sam and I posed in front of a Christmas tree, but we look neither as calm nor content.

Spock glances my face and adds, "My grandmother was Jewish. She wouldn't enter the living room until the Christmas tree was gone."

I get it, that things weren't perfect for the Greysons, either.

I want to say _look, can we just let bygones be bygones? Just start over?_ But for some reason I hold back.

He turns and stares at me, and I get the sudden and strangely nautical impression of a man lost at sea; then Spock's gaze drifts to one side and I think: into the wind, tacking.

Perhaps the influence of Greyson's sailing stories.

"I shall submit myself for prosecution when I am released from Doctor McCoy's medical leave."

My mouth falls open I'm so astonished. "For _what?_"

"For assaulting you."

"You've got to be kidding, Spock."

"I am not."

"Bad idea. You need to let it go, Spock."

"I cannot."

I study him. He is serious, distant, suddenly very Vulcan: all principles, control, determination. It's a naïve impulse. He's on earth, the Fleet is traumatized, and they're busy putting me up on a damned pedestal. There's no telling what the reaction could be. Brass could dismiss it. Or they could twist things so they could have someone to blame for their failure to protect Vulcan and Earth.

I need Pike, we both need Pike's help, his political protection. He knows how the game is played.

"Your father—"

"Agrees that I should take responsibility for my action."

"Right." Volunteering for prosecution would be a stupid, stupid idea. What might hold him back? "You might think about what it would do to Uhura, though. She loves you."

That strikes home, I can see it in his eyes and the way his mouth curves down. "I shall take full responsibility for my actions. Nothing less."

"Look, if the offense was against me, work it out with me. Don't make it a public circus. Don't…throw away your career. Fleet needs you. Hell, _we_ need each other. I wouldn't have survived without you. And you wouldn't have survived without me."

And he fixes me with that unnerving Vulcan, unblinking, calculating stare. "Our mutual survival defied probability."

I stare back in surprise then break into a smile. He _agrees _with me.

"Yeah. Remember that." I wipe my face back into seriousness. "Look, as your Captain, promise me one thing: promise me that you'll talk to Pike, first, before you do anything. And listen to him."

"That would be a promise of two '_things_'."

I ignore him. "You trust him. And he won't steer you wrong."

He doesn't answer, just sighs to himself as he moves along the wall, touching the edges of more holos. A formal holo of Sarek and a young human woman in Vulcan robes. A holo of Spock in Academy graduation robes, holding a diploma. His fingertips linger on a holo of the same woman, smiling beneath a blooming rose vine, sunlight nearly obscuring her face.

I try to pull him back to the present. "Uhura's waiting for us back at the fire. Well, for you. There's a chair next to her with your name on it."

I consider giving him a macho punch in the arm, but change my mind at the last minute and instead reach out and give his upper arm a quick squeeze. And then a token punch. He rewards me with the look of annoyance I was going for, and I give him an encouraging smile.

"You belong with us, Spock, down by the fire. Come on." I turn and walk away, walk out of the house, bag of marshmallows in my hand.

Footnote 1- See Chapter 2.


	59. Ch 59 Marshmallows

Greyson's House

Waterfront, By the fire

Uhura's POV

Chris is a seriously cute guy: sandy haired and tall like his cousins. His other cousin, Rob Greyson, is closer in dark haired good looks to Spock, but there's something about Chris that reminds me more of Spock. Chris's eyes take in everything with a bright glint, and I suspect his sense of humor is as dry and sly, and witty.

"I bet there's some story you could tell me about Spock's mother." I prompt.

Chris has eased up on his interrogation of me. His smile seems more relaxed now, so I think he's decided he likes me.

Grace leans back in her chair, looking up at the stars beginning to peak out overhead.

Next to the kids, Jim Kirk is helping the Vulcan kids and the neighbor girl slide big white marshmallows onto skewers.

Denise and Kirk break into a mock sword fight complete with battle cries and giggles. Their display ends with their skewers impaling marshmallows like prey. The Vulcan kids look back and forth between each other, their eyebrows climbing.

"Well," Chris hesitates, rubbing at his thumb. "There was that piano duet at Christmas."

He's sitting in the adirondak chair next to mine, and I take his wrist to see his hand. Something caught my eye. I turn his hand over, looking at his thumb, a question in my eyes. Spock has a similar scar on his thumb, too. But his eyes slide sideways, and I understand that yes, there's a story there, but not one Chris is ready to tell me.

"A piano duet?" I volley.

"Yeah. Spock and his mom."

I didn't know he could play the piano. I guess it wouldn't be a stretch that he could play other instruments, given how well he plays the Vulcan harp. And I did notice an upright piano in the living room—but it was pushed into a corner, blocked off by end tables and chairs.

"Your mom used to do the skit every year with her when we were little." Rob adds, speaking to Chris. He throws a piece of wood onto the fire and sparks fly up, startling T'Pem. "But there probably wasn't anyone for Auntie Mandy to play with once she moved to…" Rob glances at the kids and his voice trails off.

Grace kicks off her sandals and stretches her feet out toward the fire, sighing with pleasure. "Tell it to Uhura, kiddo. That's a good one."

"Well, are you familiar with The Nutcracker?"

"By Tchaikovski? Doesn't every little girl in the Federation wants to be a ballerina after seeing it?"

"Oh, Nyota." Grace exclaims, "You'd make a beautiful ballerina!"

I laugh in an unattractive snort at the thought. Not since I was five, at any rate.

Kirk leans back and shifts to give me a narrow eyed look. "You would. She's right, _Legs_." He's guiding the kids in holding their marshmallows over the fire now. Some are too far to even get warm, while Savar's bursts into flame. Kirk grab Savar's skewer and blows it out.

"Don't give me a nickname, Captain. I noticed how the doctor's stuck." I laugh.

"Have you heard the piano duet arrangements of the Waltz of the Flowers and the Dance of the Sugar Plum fairy?" Chris continues, and I hum a few notes. Denise looks up with a grin and dum-ta-ta-tah dum-dum tah tah dum's along with me.

"Sounds like you know it."

The fire crackles as the new piece of wood starts to burn. Sepek is focused, still burning Vulcan script onto the firewood as the rest of the kids try to toast their marshmallows. Savar attempts to explain the chemistry of the caramelization process to the other kids in Federation standard.

"What really stands out in my mind was the year Aunt Mandy wore that crazy headband with the pink pompom antennae." Rob mused.

"Mandy and Chris's mom tried to see how funny they could make it every year—while not messing up, mind you." Grace filled in.

Out of the darkness Spock slides into the empty chair beside me. He meets my eyes as he sits, his hand sliding down my arm to my hand, where his fingers entwine around mine. No one comments on his reappearance.

Chris smiles nostalgically. "It was a tradition, I guess."

Grace studies Spock, then carefully speaks. "Mandy…quit playing piano after Skene died." She turns to Kirk and adds softly, "His little sister."

Kirk nods. "I saw a picture up in the house." He looks at Spock, looking like he's on the edge of saying something, a tease, but decides against it and turns his attention back to the kids.

Skaal stands and heads back up the hill, toward Doctor McCoy and T'Qilah. They have seated themselves on the edge of the deck and are talking in a low pitched, intense conversation. Even speaking softly, their voices carry in the deep quiet of the island.

"It stopped until that Christmas you played the duet with your mom—how old were you that year, Spock?" Chris continues lightly.

"Fifteen."

"Yeah. That sounds right."

I shift a little, so more of my arm brushes Spock's, and tighten my grip around his fingers.

"The two of them show up for Christmas, and Mandy pulls out this goofy headgear—whose idea was that?"

"Hers, certainly." And, thankfully, there's a hint of dry humor back in Spock's voice.

"And Spock and Aunt Amanda proceed to sit together, squeezed onto that little piano bench, and play the duets. And Spock is all serious playing the higher part, the music box part, mincing along with the melody."

"I beg your pardon. Mincing?" Spock arches an eyebrow at Chris.

"Yeah. Mincing." Chris grins back. "And every time the theme would come around again you'd count it off behind her back with your fingers. Three. Four." He demonstrates behind T'Nola's back.

"And Mandy batted his arm away each time without missing a note!" Grace nods, sighing. "She was good."

Chris wriggles his fingers up and down, miming a glissade, then looks over his shoulder and mugs a great send up of Spock's arch face. "And she'd mimic Spock like this…"

I had to giggle.

Spock looks around, giving everyone a mock-offended look. "Really. It was most rehearsed. And it was my first piano recital." He looks back to me and eyes warm finally. As he looks into my eyes, the corners of his mouth…well, not quite turn up, but soften.

"I'm glad you got Mandy to play again, Spock. That was beautiful. Thank you." Grace says gently.

His eyes grow remote, and he sinks a little back into his chair. Still, he keeps his hand around mine, his thumb running across my fingertips.

Chris leans forward, not wanting to let the mood slip yet. "Oh, and at the end, she tickled you with her antennae and at the look on your face, she laughed so hard she fell off the piano bench!"

"If I recall correctly her words were 'oh, no, I'm going to wet myself'." Grace chuckles.

Rob smiles to himself, putting a hand to his chin. "We were all laughing. All the cousins."

"Remember, Spock?"

But Spock keeps staring into space, at nothing in particular.

"Remember?" Chris prompts again, this time a little worried.

Spock focuses and looks around at us, looking very Vulcan. "I remember _everything._"

His tone comes out curt, almost an accusation, and the briefly happy mood shifts and evaporates.

The Vulcan children nod to each other. It is the same for them, and the question had puzzled them. They understand neither laughter nor the limitations of human memory.

Kirk urges Savar to taste his charred and sagging melted marshmallow, and Savar, knowing it's his job to take the lead, steels himself.

Chris looks down, his eyebrows drawing, but looks more troubled than hurt. For the moment, Vulcan eidetic memory seems like more of a curse than a blessing, a reason for Vulcan's tradition of control.

The fire crackles. Before us as dusk falls, lights from other homes along the margins of the islands reflect in multicolored dashes across the water.

Kirk demonstrates for the kids how to carefully sip the melted insides out of a well-crisped marshmallow. He studies Spock, thoughtfully.

Grace tucks her feet back up, curling into her chair, facing Spock. "Spock, honey, be patient with us. Telling stories is how we remember."

A/N: With continuing thanks to NotesfromaClassroom for letting me borrow Chris. Check out her stories for the answer to the thumb scar mystery! Check out YouTube for Victor Borge's classic piano humor, especially the Liszt piano duet. There are a lots of postings of the Tchaikovski duets if you'd like to hear them.


	60. Ch 60 Sarek Rest and Remembrance

Remembrance

Greyson's House

Sarek's POV

As I look up the stairs, I see Amanda on the landing at the top, her eyes luminous, angry. Right there at the top of the stairs, young and vibrant. Yes, in all the clarity of my memory of her from nearly thirty years past.

"You came back. I didn't think you'd come back." Her face had been impressively controlled, as controlled as any Vulcan's.

"I will always return for you."

I take the stairs slowly, as I had then. I take a slow, meditative breath. I remind myself of my duty: to what remains of my people, and to my son. I cannot change what I am; I have lived a life of Vulcan logic, of duty, service…

She crosses her arms over her chest, and raises an eyebrow at me, her anger already starting to fade. "Impressive."

I pause mid stairs, catching my breath, closing my eyes. At least she is with me again, if only as a memory. I breathe through the fluttering pain in my side and place my hand over the irritating monitor.

Our time together was destined to be brief in Vulcan terms, but not so shockingly truncated as this. I expected another thirty years together.

Logic. Duty. Service. I meditate on these words as I climb each stair-step.

I was unprepared for this loss. I cannot allow it to destroy me. I am needed. I will honor my wife's life and my own by continuing our work. We dedicated our lives to forging a strong United Federation of Planets: a federation formed of peace and cooperation, not the exercise of military might. Had she survived, my wife would have demanded I seize life and continue our work for peace.

And yet…I am so tired. So much work to be done, and now…without your sensitivity to guide me, your unflagging support.

I continue up the stairs, running my two extended fingers along the cool, smooth banister. I stop just below the landing, where I had come eye to eye with Amanda.

I had held out my two fingers to her in the way of husbands and wives. "We belong together."

"I should 'yield to your logic'?" Her voice was low, modulated.

For three earth months I had nursed my wounded pride. I had attempted to accept her rejection and had suffered her absence from my life. She was correct: I had _presumed_ her acceptance. I had argued for the logic of our alliance. And had earned her ire for my boorish proposal. I shook my head slightly.

"No." I lifted my two fingers to trace her cheek, then pressed my fingertips lightly to her lips. "I _ask_ you to marry me because I love you. And because you love me."

A capitulation, and yet not. It was logical for me to state what was true. To win her, as I had determined to do, it was necessary to move beyond my Vulcan acculturation and voice this truth. This gesture of respect for her humanity had been enough.

Out of necessity I had admitted emotion. This was in perfect keeping with the Vulcan tenet of Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combination…nonetheless in more pragmatic ways I defied Vulcan tradition, my father, and even T'Pau to make you my wife, my Amanda.

The irony of Spock's rebelliousness was never lost on me; nor overlooked by my family and contemporaries. For them I merely reap what I have sown.

I take the last step up the stairs, through your mirage, and make my way along the hallway.

I must center myself in logic. I have duties to fulfill. I have dedicated my life to service and my services are needed.

At great personal cost to your health, you gave me two beautiful children. You filled our home with beauty, music, and the literature of many cultures. You cared deeply for my son, Sybok.

As I pass your room, I glimpse inside it: you sit on the edge of your bed, lit only by moonlight, the delicate fabric of your evening wear slipping from one shoulder; you appeared as ephemeral as some mythological creature. You cradle our sleeping newborn daughter on your knees, young Spock looking on as you hum a lullaby.

"Mother, did you sing to me like this?" A very young Spock whispers, uncertain, knotting his fingers behind his back.

"Indeed I did, big brother." She whispers back conspiratorially, slipping her arm around his small shoulders and pulling him to her side. After a moment, his head relaxes into the curve of her neck as she tenderly smoothes his hair.

What a sacred gift for children to be so loved.

Or a husband.

I turn away, making my way to my room, feeling ephemeral myself, unreal. Perhaps it is the shock of having nearly everything I cherish so abruptly swept away.

I have my son.

I have my memories.

I have not lost _everything._

I had thought to lay down, but cannot. I carefully light my asenoi and seat myself on a chair. I attempt to meditate, to empty my mind and strengthen my control. For a while I manage to bring myself to a fragile peace. Still, I cannot bring myself to lie down to rest as I should, and find myself at the window overlooking the lawn; I see the campfire and the children gathered there. The fire seems such a fragile light, surrounded by so much darkness: the darkness of the forest, the shimmering deep water, sky that reaches out to an infinity of sorrow.

Even from here, I can see that my son and his young woman lean toward one another. Lieutenant Uhura is a young woman of character. I believe she has the strength to endure our tragedy; to support my son. Amanda would have approved of her.

You finally accepted my proposal out there on the dock, Amanda, my lost pearl of great price. Perhaps it would only be fitting to say goodbye to you there, too. The ka'athyra is downstairs. I could play it in memoriam—

-I must breathe through this grief, most difficult…

I breathe. It is logical to continue. What is, is.

You loved when I played my harp for you, my Amanda. While you had great appreciation for the traditional music of Vulcan, it was the arrangements of Terran music I played for you that bought your most tender smiles. Chopin. Mozart. You were partial to the delicate pieces that reminded you of dancing.

"Do you regret that I do not dance?" I had asked her once between pieces and she had laughed.

"Husband," she chastened me in her Standard accented Shi'Khari, "we dance all the time. Just not in the human way."

At my scandalized look, her mouth twitched and she moved to me, pressing her hands to my chest. "Naughty boy." She said in English, then switched back to Shi'Khari. "An interesting inference. But I meant in the way our lives physically move us apart from one another and yet we are drawn back together. The way our words entwine. How dissonance resolves into harmony." She held out two fingers to me in the Vulcan way.

"A dance." And my fingers linked with hers. "Most fascinating."

The ka'athyra survives because of my love for our son.

I turn away from the window, and settle into the chair before my communications eequipment. I stare at it but do not command it to function.

Had I not made the peace overture of sending my ka'athyra to Spock, it would have been lost with Vulcan.

When your sister died, I retreated from you, from Spock. I threw myself into my work. I understand it is not uncommon for humans, too, to react to tragedy in this way. For many years I had kept myself quite occupied. There was little time for music, and much less the inclination to produce it.

In that time, I drove Spock to achieve a level of mastery in his ka'athyra musicianship that surely did not include time for taking any pleasure in the skill. And Spock rose to my demand that he excel.

And if he had not, would I have thought him less Vulcan? Did he sense this?

The tea has grown cold. The message light on my communications console blinks urgently. I cannot resist checking for the quantity of messages awaiting a reply: twenty-three.

No, I cannot rest. I shall serve. It is logical to multitask if I can. Or…more honestly, to find distraction in work. I toggle the communications console into operations mode and begin to read my messages.

But I may yet find comfort in playing a song or two for you, and for the ones you loved.

Perhaps it would even be logical to provide music for the little gathering outside.

I shall retrieve the ka'athyra. I shall go down to that dock where you agreed to become my wife; I shall remember you in music. And in this way I shall continue to dance with you.

"Sarek."

I turn. Healer T'Qilah stands in the doorway. This does not please me.

I can envision my wife's response: the way her eyes would have twinkled at the unwanted interruption. How she would have turned to me in her nightclothes, her chin in her hand and her hair awry, and whispered, "No rest for the wicked."

Amanda. I cannot believe you are gone. There is no logic in this. My duty was to you. How can I serve anyone with you gone from my side?

I am the raw and negative space that wraps around the bright reality where you should be.

I do not desire that the Healer take this grief from me. It is all I have left of you.


	61. Ch 61 Sarek & T'Qilah

Sarek and T'Qilah

Sarek's POV

I have retreated upstairs to my room, meditating and trying to control my grief.

"Sarek."

I turn at Healer T'Qilah's voice and…I am momentarily discomfited to see her dressed in human clothing—Amanda's old clothing, no less: a thick black sweater and gray slacks, a black headband intended as ski wear wraps over all but the tips of her ears.

She nods her head, acknowledging my discomfort. "It is logical to utilize available resources. My robes are in need of cleaning."

"Indeed." Her action is logical. And yet…I do not like that she has made use of the spare clothing my wife had stored here.

In silence she moves to me, and holds her hands out, palm upward. In a different time, even a Healer would not have offered this familial embrace, this private comfort.

I lightly lay my hands on hers, allowing myself to feel the flow of comforting energy. The grief that seemed ready to drown me flows outward, changing shape: morphing from an ocean into a landscape that can be traversed, if with difficulty.

I know this Healer is only the ordinary kind, not an adept of Gol, but her skill is commendable. I have no sense that my personal boundaries have been violated.

"Come." She steps away from me.

The communications I was retrieving will have to wait: news of the Coridan negotiations, more Vulcan suicides, refuge aid and resettlement plans, a smattering of topics from Star Fleet. One even from the Federation President, topic: _Spock._

I stand, and sigh as I comply, picking up the cup of now cold tea.

The Healer's eyebrows rise.

"I was married to Amanda Greyson for thirty two point four standard years. It is to be expected that I have acculturated to Earth, and exhibit occasional human behaviors."

"Of course." She acquiesces.

Such a small thing, I muse. One would think that I had gone completely human.

I follow T'Qilah downstairs to the kitchen before she stops and turns to me. I abandon my teacup on the countertop.

"Hydrate yourself. I will be treating you as soon as you are ready." She continues when I obey, serving myself a glass of water from the kitchen sink. "There is a window of opportunity for return to the Embassy. A private shuttle will be arriving in violation of local airspace restrictions."

"Kirk has arranged this."

"Correct. Lieutenant Sulu has sent text to my communicator indicating that he will arrive in approximately ninety minutes. It is logical that Skaal and I maximize the remaining available time here to provide what additional treatment is possible."

"For Spock?"

"For both you and your son. And for the small children." She tilts her head slightly, evaluating me. "How long has your relationship with your son been this dysfunctional?"

There is no logic in arguing her assertion. "He nearly died just before his kaswan, testing himself on the Forge. His sister's death a year later…"

"Eighteen standard years, then."

I resist acknowledging this; I do not detail the number of years we had not even spoken. "Yes."

"Why did you not seek counseling?"

I remain silent.

Because Spock had been evaluated so regularly and thoroughly—both mentally and physically-as a small child that he had developed an aggressive aversion to medical personnel. I believed Amanda called his reactions 'tantrums.' Later, she called it 'acting out.' The behavior had not concerned her, but I had feared my son would be diagnosed with a mental disorder.

His violent attack of a classmate had not eased my concerns, despite the final finding of self-defense.

I halt my thoughts.

I am placing the entire burden of our difficulties at Spock's feet. Have I truly not accepted that I shared in creating our struggles? That I allowed myself to be prodded to violence against him? My failures as Spock's father were not minor.

I exacerbated my son's difficulties by expecting him to be more Vulcan than was his inherent nature. I encouraged him to see his human inclinations not as diversity, but as failings to be overcome.

I may as well have encouraged a bird to be ashamed of flight.

"Your parental bond with Spock is weak. This is not a consequence of his human inheritance. In fact, his telepathic skills are exceptional. He has the capacity to bond normally with you, and yet you have chosen not to do so."

"I meant to preserve his human individuality, and hoped to spare him the suffering of our reproductive cycle."

"You reject him for his human weaknesses."

My son…with so many tremendous advantages was no less…an experiment: looked at by Vulcan society and even his own father as unproven, possibly dangerous. If Spock failed to integrate successfully, I failed to demonstrate that humans could rise to the expectations of civil Vulcan society, interplanetary civil society.

What an unreasonable burden for any sentient being to bear.

My unfortunate, beloved, son.

I control the intensity of my response by taking another deep drink of water. I expose myself when I place the glass down and it strikes the counter loudly. "Then Spock is incorrect."

I did not reject him for his humanity. I _feared_ for him because of it.

"It is what Spock believes." T'Qilah stares hard into my eyes and I search myself for the truth of the matter.

"I have made grave mistakes with Spock. But I am grateful for my son, and for what he is."

"Then assist me. Bond properly with him. It will strengthen both of you."

I am not so certain this is what my son needs.

"You are damaging him emotionally by denying him the full bonding."

"He is half human. I may damage him more by doing so."

She stares at me for a moment, then bows slightly, again conceding to me.

"Do not misunderstand. I am willing to make the offer, T'Qilah."

It is strange to see a Healer in human clothing. Oddly, I think of the human tale of the wolf in sheep's clothing as she stands in stiff Vulcan formality.

In such casual clothing Amanda would have been leaning on the counter, one hand pushing her dark hair back, her hip slung out to one side. And she was in no way sheep-like.

"Sarek…" The Healer calls me away from my wife's image.

I refocus on the Healer. One cannot be alone with any Healer and not have a sense of …trepidation.

"Sarek. Look at me. Amanda is dead." I cannot help but focus on the Healer's eyes, and everything else falls away.

I know.

I know.

I…

Why did I not die with her? Why? Why should I have lived and but for a fraction of a second difference she did not? There is no logic whatsoever in this outcome. It is unacceptable. Perhaps the transporter buffers-

"Sarek. Say it."

"I will not."

"You must." She holds her hands out. "I will assist you."

"No."

You would have demanded I carry on, Amanda, that I trust the Healer. I place my hands on T'Qilah's again.

"No." I murmur again, surprised at my own illogic.

This time I feel a tide of darkness wash through me. I am Vulcan, so disengaging my physical response to emotion is automatic for me after a lifetime of discipline. I do not move, nor make any sound. But it does not negate that in my mind, my cry of anguish would have penetrated the warp barrier. My knees weaken.

The Healer's touch steadies me, and by the warmth in my side I can sense her protecting my physically weakened heart.

"Say it. Use her name." She whispers. "Heal. And then together we will do more to heal your son and comfort the other children."

This is not a purely Vulcan technique, I am certain. Perhaps this is something she learned during her long residence on Earth.

I am surrounded by Amanda's home, her holographs on the walls. Memories whirl around me to the point that I feel ungrounded in this time and place. How can this terrible thing possibly be true?

The Healer's eyes bore into me. "Kaiidth, Sarek. Admit your loss."

"Amanda…is dead." I whisper. I would rather have cut out my tongue with an unsharpened utensil. It is no relief, but kaiidth…what is, is. I sense an inner shift, a return of control. Kaiidth…

I straighten. It is clear that the Healer has now somehow dulled the raw-most edges of my severed bond. What is…is.

Amanda would never have wanted me to suffer for her.

I remove my hands from the Healer's palms, and take a step away from her. I straighten my posture. I nod to T'Qilah, in acknowledgement of her assistance, and the Healer's eyes regard me with surprising kindness.

"You have much to be grateful for, Sarek."

"Indeed, Healer."


	62. Ch 62 Selek and Pike

The Visitor

San Francisco General Hospital

Brain Trauma Center

Pike's POV

I've become so used to parades of specialists that I don't even turn around when he first comes into my room.

The last of the daylight is skimming across the Bay, lighting up the barges where Fleet technicians are still trying to figure out how badly the Romulan drill damaged San Francisco's estuary, and to learn all they can about its alien technology. That is, if they can hold back the local demand that Fleet just get it the hell out of their Bay.

The damned drill: unspeakably still there in the Bay, its metal sides having the gall to glow as golden as the bridge in the last of the sunset.

Jesus. Command thinks it's the same drill that destroyed Vulcan.

I hear more than a few small ships went down the hole left behind when the Narada's planet eating drill lost power, sucked helplessly along with the in-rushing sea. The techs said the hole made Crater Lake look shallow before the Fremont fault gave a little shrug and the unstable walls started collapsing in.

"Admiral Pike?" He says softly, and I whirl my mechanized wheelchair away from the window at the sound of his voice. Spock?

But the man before me is old-very old-and Vulcan old to boot. For a moment I think I'm mistaken. "What do you want? Are they going to try a Healer on me now?"

He raises an eyebrow, and again I'm thrown. Maybe my brain is damaged and my body broken, but I've spent a long career in space and I've seen time anomalies before. Either he is from another time or I somehow now am. Maybe I died. Maybe I've been in stasis. I know I've been in and out of consciousness.

"I am not a Healer." He says softly, slipping his traveling cloak from his shoulders and draping it carefully over his arm. "I am merely a…visitor. I am Selek."

I narrow my eyes, not trusting him; not entirely trusting myself. But I know those still bright, deeply intelligent, questing eyes. "How did you get here?"

"I have Embassy clearance. And the Number Seven municipal bus line to San Francisco General's Brain Trauma Center is directly—"

I decide to gamble, to trust my gut. "Stop it Spock. I know it's you. What I don't know is whether you're in the wrong time or I am."

He blinks at me, and I can see that he did not expect me to recognize him.

"I thought I had you trained, son, not to underestimate me."

The old Vulcan shakes his head slightly, his mouth twitching in a shadow of what I labeled pleasure and what the young version of this man defended as being 'logical satisfaction.' "It has been a…very long time, Captain Pike. For me."

I stare deep into his dark brown eyes. He's lived one hell of a life: I can see that. And he's lived to be old, which is no small accomplishment for those of us called into the Service, into deep space. "You're older than hell, Spock."

He reaches a gnarled hand out to just touch my wheelchair. "I may have invented hell."

That's even the right sense of humor for Spock. "Away team report, Mister." I demand.

"You know I can't." His voice is ragged with age, but he speaks surprisingly gently.

I nod. Of course: the Prime Directive applies to time as well as place. "Did you come here because of Vulcan? To repair—"

But I stop speaking when anguish flashes across his face and then disappears. Again, so like the controlled young man I took under my wing: showing emotions, but in microflashes. But this old version of Spock doesn't instantly harden into Vulcan stoicism when the flash disappears.

"You okay?"

This old Spock stares at me intensely, then looks away. I realize he is moved that—mess that I am—I'm concerned for him. Well, Christ, he's Vulcan. He's lost his planet. Of course I'm worried about him. I know those eyes, that voice-even raspy with age. I _care_ about Spock.

Someone had to take the kid under his wing: what an intellect he brought to Fleet! But he came with baggage, too. He was obviously maladjusted to both Vulcan and human social norms. But Fleet told me to make sure Spock succeeded.

I treated him like my own son. Just like Kirk and a generation of other needy kids. I'm grateful I could help them.

I'm grateful I got to work with someone like Spock, Fleet's first Vulcan. I like to think he trusts me, that he's come to think of me as a friend. It's not like I had any special warm spot in my heart for Vulcan. But I always felt they were good people. God, but they didn't deserve annihilation.

And now, this…time traveler. Hell, I know about the temporal wars. Time travel doesn't surprise me.

What surprises me is that, based on this old man standing before me, Spock really…does?…did?…think of me as a friend.

He goes to the window and stares out, unknowingly mirroring my routine, probably studying the same scene.

"The Law of Unintended Consequences." He says softly. "I was trying to save Romulus. Its star will nova."

I try to wrap what's left of my mind around a universe not only without Vulcan, but without Romulus, too. "You would have to do something. You would try to help them."

He sighs, and nods slightly without turning. "You knew me well."

Knew. _Past tense._ "Young Spock…?"

The old Vulcan turns at that. "Is in Seattle. With family…and loved ones."

I'm relieved at that, I'm sure it shows. I don't know how one universe can hold two versions of the same man, but I'm glad to know the young Spock I've mentored hasn't been sucked out of this one in some cosmic exchange.

"They would be your family and loved ones, too."

He shakes his head. "No. His. Just as you are his mentor, and not…precisely…mine."

"And yet you're here, visiting this old pile of jetsam."

"It is difficult not to concern myself with someone who was so instrumental to my social survival at Star Fleet Academy, and to my success in Star Fleet. In a time of great stress, you were like a father to me. I never thanked you. I do so, now."

He looks down, appearing aware of how maudlin he sounds. He faces me squarely, abruptly impersonal again. "Further, you sacrificed yourself to save the Enterprise. Your actions helped save Earth."

"But…not Vulcan, Spock. I'm sorry…"

"Your effort to save Vulcan was valiant and self-sacrificing. You have no reason to offer regrets." His hands fall awkwardly to his sides. "When I heard you had been transferred to San Francisco General's brain trauma center…"

I know what he's thinking. It meant that Fleet Medical had thrown all they had at me and had given up. And, though SFG's Brain Trauma Center is excellent, the Federation's most advanced medical facilities were Vulcan.

We stare at each other for a long moment, and I'm not sure which one of us feels more like a ghost.

"What do you want?" I prompt, knowing he would be here for a reason.

"I would like to offer healing." He draws himself up, his hands swinging behind his back as he straightens into a formal Vulcan posture. "I studied with the Kohlinahr masters. I am proficient in certain mental healing techniques."

I close my eyes. "I don't know where I'm not _me _anymore…" The horror of that alien beast crawling into my skull...

"I can answer that question, Captain. I may be able to repair your mind, where the Centaurian slug damaged your neural connections."

I'm torn between disgust at the idea of having my mind again invaded and the first surge of hope I've felt.

"I cannot promise repairs to your body, Captain. But I am certain I can help you block the traumatic memories of Nero's torture, and return your damaged sense of self to wholeness."

"How, Spock? How could you possibly?"

"Because…I have melded with you before, Chris. I know the unique pattern of your mind."

I am dumbfounded at the thought, silenced.

He can see that I'm troubled, that I need an explanation. "In my time…you were injured, unable to communicate…"

As private as Vulcans are, as the young man I know _is, _it is difficult to imagine him offering this most intimate of Vulcan acts.

"I served under you, Chris, Captain…for thirteen years."

"Stop, Spock." I hold up my hand, I can't hear more. And I shouldn't. But, in another time that I might have commanded that beautiful ship for so many years…!

That dream is dead, sacrificed on the field of battle. I can't even command my own body, now.

This is not the time for hubris. He won't make this offer twice, I'm sure of it. "Quid pro quo, Spock. What can I offer you?"

The old Vulcan nods, _Spock_ nods, granting me this small dignity. He folds his cloak carefully and lays it on my bed, then pulls a chair beside my wheelchair, sitting with his hands on his knees. "Stories would suffice as payment in kind. I should like to hear you recount stories of our experiences at the Academy."


	63. Ch 63 Music

Music

On the lip of Greyson's deck, overlooking the dock and campfire.

McCoy's POV

A/N: I had Mozart in mind and Sarek came out with this instead…a guy who rides a Vulcan motorcycle and marries a woman from another planet has got to be a little rock and roll.

T'Qilah takes another sip of her Romulan ale, not even sparing me a glance. She hooks her foot into the leg of a lawn chair and pushes it out of her line of site. "It is why Vulcan Healers take vows. For all practical purposes, so have you."

I should know better than to whine around a Healer.

Around the fire below us sits most of the household: Spock with his Aunt and cousins and Uhura all close and quiet in a circle around the fire, Skaal among them as Kirk goofs around with the children and flaming marshmallows. If I'm not treating burns by the end of the night I'll be surprised.

"I'm a doctor not a priest." I grumble, feeling surprisingly lonely. Goddamn it all.

But T'Qilah turns to me. "We are a dealers in life and death." She studies me and I welcome the intensity of her scrutiny. One thing I like about Vulcan Healers is their absolute lack of bullshit.

"Tell me about it."

She takes another sip of her Romulan ale, then leans back and closes her eyes. "I see no reason to elaborate on what you already know."

I glance back at the house, at all the unlit windows. "How was the Ambassador doing?"

"His grief proceeds within normal parameters. He is preparing to play his ka'athyra."

"I thought Spock was the harpist."

She shakes her head slightly. "Sarek is one of Vulcan's finest…"

For the first time I hear the Healer's voice falter. "I'm sorry…" I start, lamely, and curse myself for being useless at comforting anyone.

But before I can say more the Ambassador-still wearing his formal robe-exits the house, the ka'athyra under his arm. He carefully closes the door behind himself and his precise movements remind me of his son's same graceful efficiency.

He moves toward us, examining the deck's garden furniture as he proceeds.

"Can I help you, Ambassador?" I offer informally.

He speaks lightly, but avoids making eye contact. "I believe some of these chairs fold for carrying. I wish to carry one to the waterfront."

I help him pick out and fold a simple chair-metal thick with what must be generations of white coats of marine paint-but he declines to let me carry it for him. The least I can do is let the man have the personal space he needs. I watch as he proceeds down the slope, shoulders unbowed, not toward the fire, but skirting it, surprising me by walking out on the dock before stopping to set up his chair. He sits in silence, the ka'athyra on his knees as he stares out across the water.

Greyson is next to slip quietly from the house. He says nothing, but comes to stand beside me; his arms crossed over his chest as he surveys the scene below. In the distance beyond the trees, the sound of the neighbors' drumming and singing fades into silence.

"Is T'Zel doing all right?" I ask.

He gives a little satisfied smile before answering. "She's asleep in my bed. And that's not what it sounds like, mind you. It was the most comfortable spot left in the Greyson bunkhouse."

I salute him with my drink. "Chivalry's not dead yet."

"Remind me again when I'm sleeping in my chair at 3:00 a.m." Greyson sighs and settles into a chair beside me.

I don't know the man well enough to suggest what comes to mind. God, that Kirk kid is a bad influence.

Skaal comes walking up the slope and wordlessly seats himself beside T'Qilah.

The marine air is balmy and aromatic with the scent of the red cedars, and the crickets and frogs are starting to trill.

Sarek begins to play, and the unmistakable sound of the Vulcan ka'athyra rises to us: half harp, half electric guitar.

But this is no Vulcan song. The drone and keening whine of the song mark it clearly as classic mid-twentieth century earth. The melodic line is familiar, and I turn to Greyson to see if he recognizes it.

"Jimi Hendrix." He responds to my raised eyebrows.

"How Seattle. You know the piece?"

He swallows and looks away, and to my surprise it's Skaal who answers.

"_Castles Made of Sand_. The Ambassador and his wife performed the piece at a fundraiser for the survivors of the Tarsus tragedy. His wife sang the words very well in…humanly emotional Golic Vulcanir. It became rather infamous. I have heard the recording."

We listen in silence as the phrases grow more complex, build in intensity and return again to the refrain.

"Their version was more in the style of the Twenty-first century jazz duo Tuck and Patty. Indeed his playing was favorably compared to that of Mr. Andress."

"Mandy rarely sang in public." Greyson adds roughly.

I don't have to ask what made the performance infamous. The ka'athyra cries out the despairing song with an emotional intensity shocking to hear coming from a Vulcan's hands. I can see a few of the neighbors have slipped back through the woods, watching curiously from the edge of the forest. An older woman seats herself with Denise and Sel over on the lawn by the boathouse.

I pull out my tricorder and pull up Sarek's stats, monitoring him closely. T'Qilah gives me an approving glance, and I realize she is coiled tightly as a spring. She's as concerned as I am, as ready to run if needed to aid the Ambassador.

Spock moves smoothly to the lip of the dock but hesitates there, standing so rigidly I can almost feel his tension.

The music builds, complex and masterful wave after wave, and I am sure that Sarek is now riffing on the original Hendrix piece. The sound finally shatters the silence of the surrounding forest in a climax of loss and helplessness in the face of meaningless destruction. I realize I am holding my breath as the screaming ka'athyra modulates back to the introspective melodic refrain, the restrained complexity becoming a eulogy for a lost and great civilization. In resignation the song arcs to its end: spare, its final note cast into the silence.

Around us the night seems to hold its breath, the wind not even sighing though the treetops. I don't know if the crickets and frogs have started to sing again, or my ears are simply readjusting to hear their mindless drone: life calling to life. The sound is so peaceful in contrast it's like listening to angels breathing.

I take a deep drink from my jar of the Admiral's good bourbon and let it linger in my mouth, enjoying the complexity and building a good burn before swallowing.

The ka'athyra lowers slowly onto Sarek's knees, his shoulders unbowed, his son kneeling beside him.

A/N: Please YouTube the music mentioned. Tuck & Patti are awewome. So's Jimi Hendrix.


	64. Ch 64 Remembrance

Greyson's House

On the dock

Spock's POV

My father's trembling hands rest lightly on the ka'athyra, holding it safely on his knees. As I expected, he is breathing hard from the exertion and intensity of his performance. I kneel beside him, evaluating. I fear that he is breaking, that his control is failing. I fear what that would cost such a proud and controlled Vulcan as my father.

"Sarek…" I murmur toward his averted face and realize I have no words to offer. I extend my hand toward his wrist and lose courage. I drop my hand to the edge of his chair. Nyota could simply say '_let me help' _but the words become dust in my mouth. I glance back to her, and she is on the edge of her chair, concerned, her face glowing in the firelight. She nods encouragement to me and I swallow and turn back to my father. "…sa-mekh?"

Sarek takes a breath…and _sighs_, a human behavior he has chastised me for displaying. "I suppose…" and he turns to me, controlled, but not rigidly so, "that was somewhat overwrought."

He lifts an eyebrow to me at his understatement and I bow my head to hide the inappropriate humor I barely control, the corners of my mouth twitching. But…were mother here…she would have laughed out loud.

Confused, I look up to search my father's face and then I do see his control slip and his expression holds a tenderness I have rarely seen, a tenderness that I thought he reserved for mother alone.

"I will be fine." He lifts my chin with his fingertips. "When you worry you look just like her."

In a single, sudden motion he bends closer to press his head to mine, circling my shoulders with his arm…an _embrace_. It is fortunate that his shields hold for I am unguarded, and stiff and shocked at the sudden contact. It is all I can do not to gasp in surprise. With considerable effort I force my shoulders to relax.

"I will be fine." He repeats more forcefully then straightens slowly, stroking my hair once with his hand as he does so. "I am grateful that in your eyes I can still see _her_."

I am like a string tuned too taut too long—another word and I will shatter. My fingers twist into the fabric of my father's sleeve, clutching it as if I could hold onto the very planet I have lost.

"Spock…" My father whispers.

When my head bows against my father's arm I can still smell the mundane herbal scent of ordinary Shi'Khari detergent on his robe: it is nothing and yet means everything:

It scented the blanket that wrapped me as an infant.

It scented my mother's robes as she pressed her arms around me in gentle, stealthy embraces.

It scented my school uniforms, and scented the air as I secretly washed blood and dirt from my face and hair and hands before returning home.

It made I'Chaya sneeze unhappily and shake the suds from his fur, splattering our veranda.

It was in every stitch of the traditional Golic meditation sweater mother painstakingly knit for me.

Not bending, Sarek's hand encircles the nape of my neck, and the Vulcan heat of his touch is a homecoming, even if my name in his mouth still seems a rebuke.

With Sarek's touch, his thoughts gently wash against my mind, an offer. Even without opening my mind to his, I can feel how his grief for mother laces through his every thought.

I am helpless. My shields crumble beneath an abrupt deluge of sorrow that I cannot control…but I am not subsumed. I am lifted from the drowning surf by a familiar, steady hand: a hand that brings me strength and does not let go.

_Breathe,_ he says, and I can.

I am in a place at the edge of his mind. It is a beach with no discernable horizon: there is a diffused pink light and wafting gray mist, the place is Vulcan warm and completely peaceful. _Where is this…?_

_A place of your own choosing, my son._

Nowhere. Neither earth nor Vulcan. A place I come in meditation, I realize, and for a moment I fear my father's condemnation for creating an imaginary retreat.

_Beloved son, observe._

Un-judged, I obey, and my Father unfolds a memory for me:

Mother's face in my father's eyes is as beautiful as I recall: in this memory even younger, and glowing. She looks up at him. I realize my parents stood right here, this same spot on my grandfather's dock.

"I've missed you. I've never felt like this for anyone, Sarek. It's like I'm not complete without you."

His hand goes to her face. "_K'hat'n'dlawa._ Half my heart and half my soul…I, too. It is most inexplicable."

She smiles and looks down then back up again, cocking her head in that wry way of hers. "Kinda hard for a Vulcan?" Her mouth twists in a half smile.

His thumb strokes her cheek. "No. Not really."

She looks down, oddly shy, but a smile blossoms fully across her face. "I love you, Sarek of Vulcan." She shakes her head a little, almost as if she does not quite believe it herself.

"K'diwa." He tilts her face up. "Do not hide your smile from me. It is like light itself and feeds my soul. I love you for _what_ you are as well as for who you are. Do not change, do not try to be Vulcan for me."

Her face draws as my father kneels. "What are you doing?"

"I understand that this is the traditional posture in your culture, when a man proposes marriage. Am I in error in this?"

"Oh, Sarek." She drops to her knees beside him, reaching out to just rest the tips of her fingers on his chest. "Continue." She whispers.

He enfolds her small hands in his own. "Amanda Greyson of Earth…" Sarek begins formally, but falls silent. He had prepared a much longer speech, but now, with her face turned toward his so bright and vulnerable, the words evaporate from his mind. "Amanda, marry me. I can no longer bear to be parted from you."

Her face crumples and tears streak down both of her cheeks.

"K'diwa?" Sarek's voice is a whisper. What has he done so wrong to cause her such pain? His hands tighten around hers, he is intensely afraid of losing her, but she pulls her hands away…only to throw her arms around his neck.

"Yes." She whispers into his ear. "Yes, yes, with all my heart and soul."

The relief that floods him quickly burned into a bond that had never faltered; he had loved her…fiercely.

The scene quickly fades, and I sense my father mentally withdrawing. In a moment I find myself sitting back on my heels; my father's hands moving gently across the ka'athyra as he studies the stars beginning to sprinkle the sky above us.

"Sa-mekh, I am honored…"

"The night has a thousand eyes, Spock. A thousand eyes…"

I search my memory for the reference and recall the poem:

_ The night has a thousand eyes,_

_ And the day but one;_

_ Yet the light of the bright world dies_

_ With the dying sun._

_ The mind has a thousand eyes, _

_ And the heart but one; _

_ Yet the light of a whole life dies_

_ When love is done._

When I look back to my father, he is peacefully re-tuning the ka'athyra, his hands steady. He lifts the instrument to his shoulder. Then he turns to look at me, his eyes intense.

"Go to her. She is waiting for you."

Automatically I look back to Nyota, and he is right. She stands waiting at the end of the dock for me; her eyes have never left me. I stand.

"You are certain…?"

"Go."

"Sarek, I…Sa-mekh…"

"I never regretted choosing your mother, Spock. Never."

I nod and let my fingertips drift over my father's shoulder as I turn away.

He begins to play a delicate Chopin piece, and the sound drifts quietly into the night across the still dark water of the cove.

As I walk shoreward on the dock, each of my footsteps feels more and more certain. When I step again on the soft clay of the lawn, I briefly take Nyota in my arms, pressing my face into the sweet juncture of her throat and shoulder.

"Thank you." I whisper into her ear before releasing her, intentionally vague, global.

Her hand strokes my arm. "You okay?" She asks gently, and I nod.

Now my father plays Mozart; I recognize the second piece of the elegant set of music my father would play to comfort my mother when she was feeling most homesick for earth.

I return with Nyota to the fireside, our fingertips brushing as we walk.

Mozart on the ka'athyra-like mother and father together-unexpected, beautiful, intense, transcendent.

A/N:

Poem: _The Night has a Thousand Eyes,_ Francis William Bourdillon_, _a Victorian era poet.

With thanks to the Vulcan Language Dictionary: Vulcan to English-

Ka'athyra: the Vulcan harp

K'diwa: beloved.

Sa-mekh: father.


	65. Ch 65 Savar

Greyson's House

Beachfront

Savar's POV (the eldest of the Vulcan children)

A/N: Hang in there, dear readers who wonder. I'm still working on this story.

The night is quiet and peaceful. Perhaps it is illogical for this to seem so, but it is true. It seems wrong for the night to be full of quiet and peace when within...I burn. I cannot believe what we have lost. I cannot bear what we have lost.

Sepek, T'Nola and T'Pem are attending to Captain Kirk's distractingly childish behavior. Sel rests quietly on the grass with the human girl T'Niise and her mother, watching everyone from a distance. Selar is walking back up the hill toward MahKhoii, and I do not have the will just now to take this comfort from her. She responds to him like my Uncle Seckt, her father. MahKhoii is similar to Uncle Seckt in his surface brusqueness and underlying care. I understand what she seeks.

It is cool, but not uncomfortably so. There is a slight breeze, and the surface tension of the ocean breaks in regular energy waves against the land. The rythym it creates is an acceptable sound.

It is more acceptable than the alien music the Ambassador was performing earlier. I rise from the fire and wander toward Sarek. Kirk's eyes follow me, but he does not try to stop me. I realize Kirk's antics are for our entertainment. Despite this, he is keeping as close a watch on all of us children as I am. I do not understand why, but I feel…relief at this. Perhaps because Kirk is trying to share my burden of responsibility.

When I walk out on the dock, I sense the slight instability of its surface, a slight rocking with the wave motion below. I do not like it.

I walk almost to the Ambassador, but stop short to try to see what it is that he seems to be observing so carefully. I look up at the stars as he does, and recognize nothing from their unfamiliar patterns. I did not bother to study the patterns of the stars as seen from earth. It did not seem to be especially useful information, since we only planned to be on earth for ten days. One of the stars somewhere above must be our T'Khassi, called Eridani 40 by the Federation.

I look away from the stars, my search useless. It will always be useless. I must focus on...anything else.

A small boat with a very tall pole in its center is carefully tied to one side of this dock. It is clearly of different design than Rob Greyson's speed boat. I believe this is one of the kind which is powered by wind, in the ancient earth style.

I glance back at the land. The fire spotlights our small group of people and it seems very isolated here. The forest and water surrounding us are so deeply blue and dark.

Shi'Kahr…_was..._one of Vulcan's largest cities, its ancient capitol. The plains and jutting rocks of the Llangon Mountains were deep reds and oranges. At night, the light from T'Khut would refract in the dust of our atmosphere, and when the wind blew even the darkness was tinted red.

Here, the darkness is blue. The yellow light glowing from the homes dotted along the margins of the far islands hardly seem to press back the indigo of night. From the edge of the dock the stars reflect in the undulating dark sea and for a moment I feel like I am ungrounded, adrift, floating in space itself and surrounded above and below by stars…

_Vertigo …_I am losing balance...

Abruptly Sarek's hand lands on my shoulder, and he is pulling me away from the edge of the dock.

"Sit beside me."

I find myself seated on the dock before I quite know what has happened.

"Are you better now?" Sarek settles back onto his chair, the ka'athyra again on his lap.

"Yes."

"You must use caution around the water, Savar. Even this close to the shore the ocean is cold and deep, and the lower gravitational field, as you know, can be disorienting."

I realize I am staring at the Ambassador and look away. The trees of the island are dark against the star filled sky. The brightness of our arm of this galaxy is called the Milky Way by humans. Human analogies are distractingly imaginative, but I understand this one—the denser band of stars splatter like white liquid across the dark arc above.

"Speak your mind." Sarek's words are unexpectedly gentle.

My words spill out with no consideration. "You are being illogical."

Sarek regards me silently for a long moment. "And what leads you to this conclusion?"

"Forgive me, sir."

"Speak your mind." His mouth shifts, nearly a smile, and it only serves to…unsettle me more. "What is necessary to say…is never illogical." He adds.

"That alien music…"

"I presume you mean the initial piece I played?"

"It seemed so…emotional."

"As was appropriate for the proper interpretation of the piece."

"I thought you had…"

"Lost all logic?"

I swallow and look away, ashamed to make such an accusation of a great Vulcan leader.

"Savar. Art is an appropriate medium to channel and interpret…experience. This is true for most cultured species, and it is so for us as Vulcans. And have we not had…an excess of experience recently?"

"Yes, sir."

"And do I now seem out of control?"

I jump as some unknown animal in the forest squawks abruptly. "No, sir."

"Humans also channel and interpret emotion through the arts. It does not necessarily mean loss of control or madness, although art may challenge the status quo. Art can contain and express what is otherwise...inexpressible."

"I do not understand why you would choose such a public display of…art."

"Public?" Sarek looks taken aback. "Where is this public you speak of? I see family, and neighbors who have shared our lives for decades, my son's…companions. I see Healers, Vulcan and human, who serve us. This is our home; those present, family."

"Even…" I gesture toward the fire with my hand, "...us?"

"My Shi'Kahri child, most especially you; and most especially Selar, T'Pem, T'Nola, Sel, Sepek. I request that…for now…you consider yourself and the other children to be under my protection, my clan's children. You are not without family."

For a moment I fear my control is failing, but I close my eyes until I regain my control. "I am most honored. I am undeserving…"

"Was not Surak himself once a humble teacher of agricultural workers?"

I study Sarek's face. The S'chn T'Gai are among Vulcan's most noble and ancient clans; my people's clan but ordinary workers as …_were_…most Vulcans. I close my eyes again. It is painful to phrase this thought in past tense. "We Shi'Kahri are very few now, aren't we."

"Yes. Few indeed…" Sarek's even voice trails off into silence.

I open my eyes and study Sarek, my logic uncertain. It is possible that I am disappointed, even…angry. It is not right that Vulcan…that something so terrible could happen. That we can never go home. That our people and the Federation could let this happen.

"I was told to uphold our values, to guide the other children in the Vulcan way. To lead them. And yet, you…you are our leader and you seem so careless with emotion. How can I lead, then? How can I uphold Vulcan control if even _you_ cannot…"

Expressionless, Sarek returns my gaze, finally giving a slight nod. "No one can take away what you are, Savar. You are Vulcan. You accept a noble task: preservation of our Vulcan culture. I am honored by this." He bows slightly to me and I am granted a moment of silence. "Savar, I was fortunate to find my life partner here. I did not anticipate that my life partner would be human, but Amanda Greyson served me well, and served Vulcan selflessly. Often her human insight into the emotional motivations of other species proved invaluable to me and to Vulcan's diplomatic staff. Hiring her was logical. Marrying her was…also logical, but logic of a more personal nature."

He falls silent for a moment, growing distant, his hands patting his ka'athyra. "She was my wife and bond mate…thirty years bonded to this human: half my heart, half my soul. In a way…I have lived these years of my life as half-human as my son, Savar. Perhaps you will consider infinite diversity in infinite combination if I seem to be honoring my loss…my wife, in all her humanity, in ways that seem…outside of common Vulcan tradition."

When the Ambassador turns he does not look at me, but past my shoulder. I turn and realize Healer Skaal is behind me. I had not heard him approach.

"Savar. Come. Let us allow the Ambassador to grieve in peace."

I stare at Healer Skaal. Despite his Healer's grace, he looks…_peculiar_ wearing a human style bathrobe, a towel wrapped around his head.

The Ambassador holds his hand up, and I pause before leaving with Healer Skaal.

"Savar…The Greysons will also consider you part of their family now." He takes a breath. "You should not hesitate to claim them as your clan, too. Ensure the other children understand this."

I nod, and then glance first at Spock, and then up the hill at Admiral Greyson. There is comfort in this. It is logical. Admiral Greyson leans back, relaxed, chatting with Mahkhoii. Selar appears to be asleep now, curled in Mahkhoii's arms.

There is safety for us in the Ambassador's plan: it is the Vulcan way to have extended clan connections. The Greysons will understand this. The Greyson's are a Vulcan clan in a way, through marriage and through Spock.

Sarek lowers his voice even more. I can just hear him. "Vulcan emotions run deep, Savar. It is the reason we must learn control. Nonetheless, denial of what _is_ would be most illogical. As leaders of our people, each in our own way, Savar, we do well to remember this."

Healer T'Qilah is approaching, walking toward the fire.

Sarek continues. "Vulcans are people of peace, Savar. We seek control not to demonstrate some moral superiority, but to follow Surak more dearly; that our actions and words should contribute to the greater good, to the good of the many."

I study the Ambassador. All our lives we have been taught this: Surak's way is the way of peace. The Vulcan way is the way of peace. Control is but one of the precepts we follow in Surak's honor. I shall endeavor to extend peace to Sarek, to those who attacked Vulcan, to those who failed to save Vulcan. This is a most challenging assignment.

Skaal walks beside me. "Let us return to the fire. Healer T'Qilah wishes to speak with the children."

"What about Selar?" I ask, as we climb the short trail to the lawn.

"The Healer has already been treating her. She will come to no harm with Doctor McCoy."

Ambassador Sarek's words echo in my mind, and I puzzle over how to rise to them, how to be Vulcan in peace and tolerance, how to lead the children. I shall be brave. I shall allow my cousin peace, and allow the comfort she finds with Mahkhoii. I shall try to learn how to bring peace to this anger and fear that I cannot seem to control. I shall try to keep us together. I shall try to keep myself together.


	66. Ch 66 A-N re Amanda's Story

A/N: Please see Amanda's Story as its own story now.

(And two new Chapters, there, too!)

I'll bandage the wound here as soon as I can, and we'll proceed.

Thank you for your patience!


End file.
